HC02B—Seven Shots
by VST
Summary: Seven 1-shots. Summary: In Shot #7: Still Images, when the Mexican beauty walked in, he knew he would do anything for her until she actually asked. Then it took some serious convincing and a great deal of effort to really do it. Family/humor. See the start of earlier shots for their summaries and awards. Updated & Complete, 3/12/19!
1. Shot 1: The New Men in Town

**HC02B: Seven Shots  
** by VStarTraveler

 ** _Summary:_** _Seven 1-shots. In Shot #1, The New Men in Town, a young man sees two mysterious strangers who look remarkably like the bad guys on the cover of his new dime novel. Since such books were often based on the exploits of real lawmen or bad guys, he believes them to be those from the book. Are they there to rob the town? How can he convince anyone else, and how he can stop them if he can't?_

 _The High Chaparral premiered on NBC TV on September 10, 1967. "The New Men in Town" is my 50th anniversary tribute story for the series. It is also my entry in and **First Prize Winner** of The Plight of the Little Known Fandom's August 2017 challenge, The Song Challenge: The Piano Man._

 ** _Disclaimer:_** _This story is a work of fiction, written entirely for fun and not for profit. This interpretation of The High Chaparral is entirely my own, and The High Chaparral and all of its various components remain the property of their respective owners. All characters in this story except for Wasson, Clum, Loss, and Moran are fictional. The four mentioned are used in their historical context only._

 ** _Author's Note:_** _I apologize to anyone who caught my accidental post that included an early outline for this series. I hope that the outline, some of which will be used in some form, won't ruin the enjoyment of the actual series as it unfolds. Thanks for understanding, VST_

* * *

 **Shot #1: The New Men in Town**

 _High Chaparral Ranch, early April, 1878:_

It was late evening after a long, hard day on the ranch. The Cannon and Montoya family was seated in the living room with the babies having fallen asleep in their parents' arms. With Reno and Chun Li having picked up the mail in Tucson earlier that day, three of the adults were reading newspapers and Buck was reading a letter.

"John, help me with my English, please?" said Victoria sweetly, looking up from the March 29th edition of _The Arizona Citizen_ newspaper. Several recent editions had all arrived at the same time. "I thought sure I had a good grasp on the language, but I'm not sure if I understand this article correctly."

John sat on the couch next to his wife reading his own paper while holding baby Betsy. He looked over at hers and said, "Which one?"

"Here," she said, pointing. "'Women as Practicing Attorneys'." She handed him the paper.

He quickly read the short article and then nodded. "Yes, I can see how that might be confusing, but that's our Congress for you. If they see a problem, they take forever trying to fix it, and if they don't see one, they create it."

"That's what I thought," she said with a bit of frustration as she repositioned a growing but sleeping little Bobby on her lap and arm. "I initially became an American citizen because I love you, but I also want to participate in our government and making our country better. I hope that when Betsy and Bobby become adults that they will have the same rights. If Betsy wants to be an attorney and practice before the Supreme Court or if she wants to go to the polls to vote, there won't be anything stopping her."

"That's coming, Victoria, and probably sooner than you think," assured John. "The citizens of Arizona will be petitioning for statehood in just a few more years and when we do, we're going to do what Wyoming and Utah have done and give women the right to vote."

Mano was hiding a smile behind his newspaper, but Buck, who was just finishing Billy Blue's letter, hid his behind his hand. Buck refolded the letter and put it down as he said, "So Blue's package didn't come?"

"Nope," said John. "You know how it is with the mail. It could arrive tomorrow or it could be six months."

"Well, he said it had some gifts so maybe it'll be here by Christmas. Just wish he'd told us what it was."

"Where would be the surprise of the presents if he'd done that, mi amigo?" asked Mano, grinning.

Buck sighed, defeated. "True, I guess. Brother John? Are you through with that issue?"

John really wasn't, but he nodded and passed the April 5th edition of the paper across to his brother. "Through with this one, I guess, and getting closer to being through with the paper as a whole. Ever since they moved to Florence last year, that newspaper just hasn't been the same. They take forever to get here, too, but when we do get them, we get, what, three or four issues at one time?"

"Why did they move?" asked Victoria as she gently rocked her sleeping baby boy who'd stirred on hearing his father's voice.

"I'm not sure," replied her husband more softly as he shifted Betsy in his own arms. "It lost advertising last year when the territorial capital was moved up to Prescott, so Mr. Wasson sold it. Rumor in Tucson says that Mr. Clum, the new owner, may have wanted to be closer to the U.S. Army operations in the territory since he used to be an Indian Agent at the San Carlos Reservation, but personally, I think that's balderdash. I'm guessing it's because the Federal Land Office is in Florence."

Buck looked up from the paper. "What difference would that make, John?"

"Well, all of the federal land transactions for the southern part of the Arizona Territory are conducted in that office. That covers all of the usual farm and ranch tract claims and water rights, but that also means railroad land grants and mining claims."

Manolito looked up from his copy from a few weeks earlier. Holding it up to Victoria, she nodded and they swapped. Turning to Buck, he said, "Buck, based on what I've seen, I think the editor is really interested in mining operations and railroad development. I suspect he wants to be right in the middle of it." His eyes focused on the new issue that was now already almost two weeks old.

John looked to his brother and then to his wife. "Unfortunately, John Clum may be in the middle of all of that, but he's shifted the focus of the paper away from the Tucson area and has started having more articles on the Florence area. The advertising seems to be shifting in that direction, too."

"Es verdad," said Mano, flipping the page. "Here's a good example of that. A lot of the ads are now for Florence, Globe City, Prescott, and Phoenix. For instance, here's a new ad that just started." He proceeded to read to the others:

J. C. Loss - M. L. Moran

 **The Gem,**

 **A NEW SALOON**

Loss & Moran. - Proprietors

We would respectfully notify the public

that we have opened a new saloon

Opposite Sutherland & Company's

Livery Stable,

Main St., - Florence, Arizona

We intend to keep it as a Saloon should  
be kept.

The very best quality of Wines, Liquors,  
and Cigars always on hand and sold  
at prices to suit the times.

Gentlemen who visit our Saloon will be  
treated right, and every effort will be  
made to preserve order, as we in-  
tend that this shall be a place  
of pleasant and refined re-  
creation.

 **LATE PAPERS FROM ALL PARTS  
** can be found in the back room.

 **2 Drinks for One Bit-Each.**

March 28 - 25 tf

Victoria rolled her eyes but Buck was listening closely. Having once been in the saloon business himself, however briefly, he understood the problems of fulfilling the stated mission successfully. "That sounds like it could be a nicer place than the saloons in Tucson, Mano. We'll have to check it out if we ever get up that way."

"Sí, sounds good," agreed Mano, smiling at the prospect.

Victoria gave her brother a little disapproving frown, but John laughed. "Funny you should say that, Buck..."

~HC~

 _The next afternoon in Florence:_

The California and Arizona Stage Company coach from Wickenburg by way of Phoenix was running over an hour behind when it finally pulled into Florence on a hot mid April afternoon. It had been a long, two-day ride, but it hadn't bothered young Wendall Johannes Kranitzky. When not looking at the varied scenery of the Arizona Territory, searching the horizon for bandits or Indians that had never appeared, or trying to stay out of the way of the traveling salesman who'd slept much of the time with his head on his shoulder, he'd been reading his last acquisition before leaving San Francisco, a new dime novel entitled _The Cactus Kid Meets the Lonely Hearts Gang._ Taking place somewhere near the U.S.-Mexican border, the book was his favorite yet. The bad guys made a habit of romancing wealthy women and then fleecing them; the Cactus Kid, of course, was hot on their trail and determined to put a stop to their nefarious schemes.

Yes, Wendall J., as he termed himself, had a thing for western novels. The young man was just over 20 years of age and he was excited to finally be in what he considered "The West." His parents, the children of immigrants from eastern Prussia, had made their way to California in the years following the gold rush, so the boy had grown up in the city of San Francisco, about as far west as was possible, but he always wondered what lay in the world beyond the city's limits. As a teenager, he discovered the ever-so-exciting dime novels of the American West, giving him some insight into what he'd missed and causing him to determine on his future course.

Even after working a number of different jobs in the city, his goal as a young adult remained the same as during his teen years: He was eventually going to venture to the _real_ West and make his fortune. Therefore, when the time had come, he had headed to the Arizona Territory.

Flipping the page, the young man saw that the Cactus Kid was finally closing in on the outlaws, but it was that moment when the stagecoach driver called, "Welcome to Florence! End of the line!"

Therefore, Wendall J. closed his precious book, looking once again at the great artwork on the hard paper cover. The Cactus Kid was hiding in the rocks with his back to the viewer, a Colt Peacemaker in each hand, and looking up at the two partners who headed the notorious outlaw gang. The bad guys looked wary, but apparently didn't see the—

"Ya' getting off, kid, or are ya' takin' up residence?" asked the driver.

"Uh, uh, sorry," said the young man, stepping off the coach.

The driver pitched him his bag from the covered boot in the back, which Wendall J. caught with an "oomph." The young man thanked the driver and then turned to get his first look at the little town of Florence. He stood there for a moment, looking at the stores that lined the dusty street, wondering where he might find a job. It was later in the day than scheduled due to the slide that had temporarily closed the road. Still, he wanted to begin his job search immediately since he had only a small bag of possessions and very little cash, but a great desire to make his fortune.

Unfortunately for Wendall J. Kranitzky, he was a rather small man and he wore wire-rimmed spectacles. In addition, he had no experience herding cows and he hadn't even ridden a horse too many times. Therefore, those doing the hiring for the jobs that young Kranitzky was seeking generally decided that they'd filled their quota just before he arrived, whether they actually had or not. There had, however, been an exception in Prescott about a week earlier. That foreman had looked at the young man and told him how he saw it.

"Kid, you're 'bout as big as a tadpole, scrawnier'n a starved steer, greener'n that there grass, and, from the look'a them specs, blinder'n a bat. No, I ain't got no job fer ya, and I suspects that nobody else 'round here will neither. Now, git home and leave me be."

Sadly, Wendall J. knew what the man had said was true, but he wasn't about to give up on his dream. Somewhere, someone would give him his chance. Therefore, when he arrived in Florence in his rumpled light blue striped suit with the black trimmed lapels and the matching blue bowler hat, he set off learning the lay of the land and looking for a job. There were no cattlemen around, so he decided he'd get what he could for the moment and find his dream job in a few days. Visiting the shops that were still open, he had no luck until he finally walked into the town's recently opened Gem Saloon.

~HC~

 _The Gem Saloon, a few evenings later:_

"Hey, new guy—what's his name? Hey, Keys! Play us a song!" called one of the regulars who'd had a few or possibly even a few too many.

"The name's Wendall J. Kranitzky," said the young man in reply.

"Yeah, Piano Man! Play us a song!" called another.

Wendall sighed about the nicknames, put his broom and pan in the corner, and stepped forward to the piano. Unlike most of the equipment for the new saloon, the piano had not arrived on time. When it finally did, Misters Moran and Loss, the owners, were at a real loss on what to do, since their original hire for the keyboard had already taken another job. Then, good fortune had walked through their swinging door in the form of Mr. Wendall J. Kranitzky, who'd been playing the piano, at his mother's insistence, since he was nine years of age.

That, at least, was the way Wendall J. saw it. The owners had already dismissed him and were shooing him out the door when he ran his fingers across the until-then silent piano. At an offer of six bits a day plus free room and board, Wendall J.'s first evening at The Gem was a good but very tiring evening. Now, several evenings later, he was still the new guy but he was at least recognizing the usual crowd.

Young Kranitzky sat down at the keyboard and looked across at his two fans. "You want a song. Okay, here goes!"

With a flourish across the keys, he launched into a song he'd learned for a tavern where he'd worked in Frisco. It was a lively tune that drew the attention of all of the patrons for a least a bit before their attention returned to their drinks or their cards or, at the ever popular faro table, the banker's shoe as the players waited anxiously for the next card to be drawn.

When the tune drew near its original end, Wendall J. kept it going by repeating part of the work. This went on for quite some time, as he repeated sections of the song and then blended in similar parts of other works in his repertoire. When he decided he was done, he returned to what would have been the last couple of pages of the sheet music, if it had been in front of him, and he raised the tempo. This drew the attention of his original fans and a few others, leading to a small round of applause when the music drew to a stop.

"Good job, Keys! Play us another."

The manager behind the bar gave a little nod in Wendall J.'s direction, so the young man reached into the small stack of sheet music in the basket on the piano. He selected one with which he was not familiar, but which looked like a good piece that used a slower tempo than the last one. Studying the notes, he saw it wouldn't be much of a challenge, so he started to play.

The next hour was filled with song after song as the saloon itself began to fill for the evening. Wendall J. glanced at each of the new arrivals, recognizing most and remembering the name of a select few. He was determined that it wouldn't be too long before he knew them all. For now, he picked up on the little features of each, memorable pointers that gave clues to their identities, even if he didn't know their actual names.

He glanced at the clock over behind the bar. It was almost nightfall. Miss Margie, The Gem's talented singer, would be doing sets on the hour through midnight, so he had to grab a bite to eat since the owners really liked having the music going all evening. Wendall J. only got a five minute break before each set.

Young Mr. Kranitzky was about to finish the current song and take a break when the swinging door flew inward and a man entered the saloon followed by another. This happened numerous times each evening, but the people that entered were not these two. No, these men were dark and dusty, with a rough quality to them that told the piano player that they were not to be treated lightly.

The young man finished the tune and then shuffled sheet music for a few moments while looking at the men through the edges of his round eyeglasses. Something about them looked very familiar, as if he'd seen them before. They hadn't been on the stagecoach, and he didn't remember seeing them in Florence since his arrival. He thought back to his days in San Francisco, but couldn't place them there, either. Still, there was something about them.

Wendall J. rose from the piano, gave a wave to dismiss the couple of minor protests, and then turned to head to the kitchen where he would take his meal. As he walked, he stepped sideways to pick up some trash from the floor, being careful to keep his eyes on the new arrivals. He was almost to the kitchen door when he saw one particular detail that he hadn't noticed earlier. His eyes widened in surprise, and then in fear.

The men who had just come into the saloon were the spitting images of the hombres on the cover of _The Cactus Kid Meets the Lonely Hearts Gang_!

The first was an American, tanned and weathered, with sandy blond hair. He wore dark pants, a matching long sleeve shirt, a sleeveless black leather jacket with padded shoulders, a bandana that might possibly have been white when new, and a dark and dusty hat that looked like it had been dragged behind his horse for at least the last few miles of his journey. The key, though, was the bullet band worn around his left arm, just like Lucky Braswell of the Lonely Hearts Gang. The only real differences were that this man looked a little older, probably in his mid to late 40s, and he didn't have Lucky's mustache. His way with women was yet to be seen.

Even with the bullet band, Wendall J. would have assigned the man's appearance being so close to Lucky Braswell's as nothing but coincidence except that the second man bore an equally strong resemblance to Hector Morales, Lucky Braswell's partner in crime in the Lonely Hearts Gang. This man was Mexican or at least of Mexican descent, and he was a few years younger than his partner. He had Morales' toothy grin and haircut, and he even wore the same clothes as in the book: dark brown striped pants with an accent stripe on the side, a brown Mexican bolero-style jacket with trimmed edges, a yellow patterned shirt, and a flat black hat. The only significant differences he noted were that Hector Morales sported a Van Dyke rather than being clean-shaven like the stranger, and he wore a green bandana tied around his neck rather than the stranger's red one.

The men ordered a bottle of whiskey and Wendall J. moved slowly, continuing his discreet observation. He had to learn more about these two men, to see if they might really be the real Lonely Hearts Gang.

Moving back to the piano, he shuffled through the sheet music, as if looking for a particular song. The American was loud, tough-looking, and seemingly poorly educated based on his speech. The Mexican, on the other hand, seemed to have an excellent command of the English language. From their guns and the bullet band on the loud one's arm, Wendall J. concluded that they must be robbers. The Mexican even had a silver gun. In the dime novels, only robbers had shiny guns because the shiny guns were more expensive and robbers wanted to be flashier. Therefore, if these two didn't have a promising female to rob, they were probably in town to rob the bank. This concerned young Mr. Kranitzky even more, since he had just opened an account at the bank with the last $12.47 of his reserve fund.

Young Wendall J. was about to rush into the kitchen to seek help in capturing the outlaws when he realized that he would probably need proof of their identities to be able to have them arrested. Therefore, he put down the sheet music and slowly turned around, steeling himself for what he was about to do. He walked over to the corner where his abandoned broom and dustpan sat, and picked them up before slowly making his way toward the strangers' table. He figured he might be able to use the broom handle to knock the gun out of one of the men's hands if they drew on him. However, on seeing them talking, he bent over to sweep a little patch of the floor where he could hear what they were saying.

"—ll, I tell you, I ain't never seen one before, but I sure want one of them fancy things. They're a sight for sore eyes!"

"Sí, mi amigo. I must agree with you. I think it would be a great addition. Around here, though, they'll be worth their weight in gold, so you'll basically have to be on the lookout for one to steal it wherever you can."

"Lord, yes, I bet they do cost a mint," said the American, "but it would be well worth it."

The Mexican laughed. "If Victoria finds out about this, she's going to want one in every room in the house. And probably two or three in some of them."

With the men planning what appeared to be a huge robbery, Wendall J. stood up as the other man laughed and threw down a shot of cheap whiskey. As he plopped the shot glass back down on the table, Wendall J. took the opportunity to speak up.

"Good evening, gentlemen. Welcome to The Gem. I'm Wendall J. Kranitzky, the piano player who'll be accompanying Miss Margie shortly. I just want to welcome you to our establishment, you being new in town, and all. What brings you gents to town?"

The two men glanced at each other uncertainly, and then the Mexican said, "I am Manolito Montoya, and my thirsty compadre is Buck Cannon. We're here on a bit of business."

"That's great. Did you just get into town?" asked young Wendall, hoping to be able to get as much info on these men with fake names as he could to give to the marshal. While the Montoya name didn't mean anything to him (beyond both names starting with the letter M), the other man's name was almost certainly an alias for Lucky Braswell. Lucky, Luck, Buck! And cannons in the old days were made of brass! Or was it bronze? The young man actually wasn't quite sure after thinking about it. Whatever, it had to be fake.

"Just got here a few minutes ago," said Lucky/Buck. "We saw the ad in the paper the other day, so we decided to give your new establishment a shot."

"Uh, great," said Wendall J., realizing that they might be there to rob the saloon or perhaps Miss Margie instead of the bank. He had to let someone know, and quickly. "Well, welcome to The Gem. Got to run."

He quickly slipped out to the kitchen and picked up his book from the spot where he'd stored it for his break.

"Señor Espinosa, there are two outlaws at one of the tables up front!" exclaimed the young man to the cook. "Here's their picture on this book. I think they're here to rob the saloon."

With such evidence before him and since no one wastes their time robbing poor cooks, the man really wasn't worried in the least. "I think you dream, young Piano Man, but if you really sure, you go get marshal." The cook pointed to the back door.

Wendall J. knew it meant skipping supper, but he made his decision and shot out the door, taking the book with him. Less than a minute later, he was knocking steadily on the door to the marshal's office while looking at the sign that proclaimed "Richard Larsson, Deputy U.S. Marshal". The sign looked newly painted.

"Enough already!" came a voice from inside the office as the bolt was thrown. The door opened and the man with the star said, "Now, what's so all-fired important?"

Wendall J. quickly introduced himself and excitedly told the marshal the story. He then showed him the picture on the cover.

Looking back and forth between the young man and the cover, Marshal Larsson appeared very doubtful, but he rubbed his chin for a moment while thinking. He finally said, "Heck, kid, you've got these guys in your saloon, but I've got a couple of friends who look just like them, too. It's a dime novel, a story—"

"But, Marshal, lots of these stories _are_ based on real people! These two could _really_ be them!"

"Yes, but what I'm telling you is that they could be just about anybody else, too." He sighed. "Tell you what, I'll come down in a few minutes and take a look. Just point to them discreetly and I'll check them out, okay?"

Wendall J. breathed a sigh of relief, so he thanked the marshal and quickly returned to the saloon by the same way as he'd come. The manager was already frowning at him as he slid into place on the piano bench.

"The Gem, the finest saloon in the Arizona Territory, is very proud to welcome our very own singing sensation, Miss Margie Lynn!" On finishing his announcement, the manager waved toward the little stage where Miss Margie stepped out from the back.

A round of applause, shouts, and whistles filled the room, and Miss Margie blew kisses to her admirers for a moment before turning to Wendall J. and giving him a sweet smile and the signal to start. The young piano player launched into the first song.

As the tune drew to a close, he knew, as did everyone else in the establishment, that the pretty woman had sung like an angel. The applause was much louder than before and it kept going. Wendall J. watched as Lucky was clapping wildly and whistling at Miss Margie. Hector, the Mexican, was applauding more politely and smiling directly at the woman, as if trying to act sophisticated.

The second and third song went roughly the same way, and the reactions were basically the same, too. In watching, Wendall J. was slowly realizing that these guys weren't nearly as smooth as the men of the Lonely Hearts Gang.

It was at that point that Marshal Larsson entered the saloon and looked around. When he glanced at Wendall J., the young man nodded to the table near the front. The marshal drew his six-gun as he approached that table.

Miss Margie gave the signal for the next song, so the pianist began to play as he watched the marshal near the table. Suddenly, the marshal holstered his gun as Lucky shot up from the table. The two men were shaking hands animatedly while Lucky said something that sounded like "Deputy Rick!" Hector followed suit, and there was more handshaking. Lucky was even calling the bartender for an extra glass as the marshal took a seat with them.

Wendall J. was quite confused. The deputy marshal appeared to be speaking with them as if they were old friends. Could the marshal, who was also apparently new in town based on the freshly painted sign, also be part of their gang?

When the set ended, all three rose and greeted Miss Margie as she worked her way through the crowd. Lucky and Hector were really buttering her up, but Marshal Larsson caught Wendall J.'s eye. He curled a finger at the young man indicating for him to come.

Going over to them, the pianist heard the marshal say, "Buck, Mano, this young man is Wendall J. Kranitzky, our new piano player."

"Yeah, we had the pleasure," said Buck, smiling at the young man, as was Mano.

"Wendall J., have a seat," said the marshal. "I was just telling Buck and Mano that I got a letter from a friend at the newspaper a couple of months ago about the vacancy in the marshal's office here, so I applied and I got the job. Before that, Wendall J., I was a deputy in Tucson. Do you have any idea what else happened in the three years I lived there?"

The piano player shook his head uncertainly. He wasn't sure where the marshal was going with his story.

The marshal smiled. "That, my friend, is where I met my good friends, Buck and Mano."

Wendall J.'s eyes were big. "Really? But they were talking about stealing something! I heard them."

Mano and Buck gave each other a strange, questioning look for a moment before their eyes slowly turned up toward the ceiling. Buck pointed to one of six, slowly-turning fans that were evenly distributed across the room.

"We were talking about them mechanical fans up there on that ceiling. With this Arizona heat, we're thinking about gettin' some for our bedrooms."

Mano laughed. "Bedrooms nothing; Victoria—my sister, and his sister-in-law—is going to want them all over the house."

"Yeah, I 'spect you're right," said Buck. "Only problem is that they'd be practically worth their weight in gold 'round here and so hard to come by that you'd practically have to steal them. We're going have to see 'bout getting my nephew Billy Blue in Sheecago to get some for us."

"And some new windmills," said Mano. "Victoria's going to want so many of these things that we'll have to build about a half-dozen new windmills to spin them all!"

The marshal looked questioningly at Wendall J. "Satisfied?"

The young pianist nodded, looking quite sheepish. "Sorry. I really thought…"

The marshal looked quite serious as he stared at the young man for a moment before finally breaking into a smile. Turning to Buck and Mano, he said, "Guys, it appears there's been a case of mistaken identity on the part of our young pianist. Son, get that book."

Wendall J. jumped up and rushed back to the piano, where he'd stashed his copy of _The Cactus Kid Meets the Lonely Hearts Gang._ Still looking rather embarrassed as he walked back, he held it out to the marshal.

"Well, don't just stand there. Sit back down, kid," said the marshal as he took the book. Turning to his friends, he said, "It turns out that Wendall J. has been reading this book and the bad guys in it, by some strange coincidence, look a good bit like a couple of new guys in town." He pushed the book across the table.

"Well, I'll be, Mano!" exclaimed Buck. "That do look just like the two of us, don't it?"

Mano was chuckling. _"Posiblemente_ , possibly. I think I do see a considerable resemblance, though, if I'm not mistaken, we are much, much better looking than those _hombres_."

~HC~

 _Three days later..._

Buck and Mano rode through the gate at High Chaparral and dismounted after a long ride.

Having successfully filed John's water rights claim at the Federal Land Office in Florence, the two had lunch with Marshal Larsson, and then dinner dates with young ladies from the town. They'd left the next morning for the two day ride home, stopping over in Tucson for an early lunch on the second day, along with stops at the post office and the telegraph office.

Both men dusted themselves off and then unpacked their horses before entering the big door to their home.

"Hola, mis amigos," called Mano. "We're home!"

They were putting their rifles in the rack as Victoria came running out of the kitchen and John stepped out of his office. Young Isabella peeked over the couch from the living room floor and waved from where she was busy playing with Betsy and Bobby.

With greetings soon out of the way, Buck said, "We got the mail in Tucson on the way home." He handed it over to Victoria and then added, "Blue's package finally came, too."

Mano carried it over to the couch, and all of the family, including the babies and Isabella, were soon gathered around as John opened the package. There was a paper on top of a box filled with peanut shells. John opened it and read.

 _"Dear Dad, Mom, Uncle Buck, Mano, and Betsy and Bobby,  
_

 _Hope you're all doing well. Enclosed are the new glasses that Victoria wanted. I hope they all arrive safely. I've also put a little package down in the bottom with some extra gifts for Dad, Uncle Buck, Mano, and the twins (for when they get older), plus one for the bunkhouse boys. In addition to all of my other artwork projects, I've recently started working with a book publisher, so enclosed are five copies of "The Cactus Kid Meets the Lonely Hearts Gang" with my very first illustrated book cover. Buck, Mano, the guys in the book sounded a bit familiar, so I hope you don't mind that I made them look a little like you._

 _Love you all,_

 _William B. Cannon_

~HC~

* * *

 ** _Follow-up Notes:_**

 _Thanks so much for reading my story. If you've enjoyed it, please consider following, favoriting, or leaving a short review note to let me know. PMs are welcome, too. Your feedback is greatly appreciated._

 _A few historical notes related to the story:_

 _The newspaper stories and ads quoted in this one-shot were taken from the actual editions noted of "The Arizona Citizen" newspaper. More about that shortly…_

 _While there were no rules against it in the courts, female attorneys weren't allowed to practice in federal courts, so Belva Ann Lockwood worked from 1874 to 1879 to get a Federal law passed that explicitly allowed the practice. The bill became law in 1879, and Mrs. Lockwood was then sworn in as the first woman member of the U.S. Supreme Court bar on March 3, 1879. In 1880, she became the first woman lawyer to argue a case before the U.S. Supreme Court, arguing Kaiser v. Stickney and later United States v. Cherokee Nation._

 _Arizona granted women suffrage on achieving statehood in 1912. Victoria would have been about 72 to 74 years of age. The Nineteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution was ratified in 1920. It stated "The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of sex." Victoria would probably have been about 80 to 82 years of age when she finally achieved her goal._

 _In October or November, 1877, The Arizona Citizen, Tucson's largest newspaper (which covered news from around the Arizona Territory), relocated to Florence, Arizona, about 70 miles to the northwest. This was shortly after the original owner, John Wasson, sold the paper to former San Carlos Indian agent John P. Clum. It appears that Mr. Clum may have wished to be closer to U.S. Army operations in the territory or to the Federal Land Office in Florence, since all federal land transactions for Southern Arizona were conducted there until 1881, when the office was moved to Tucson. This may have led to a drop in subscriptions (Tucson's population was around 3,500 versus the much smaller Florence), so Mr. Clum moved the newspaper back to Tucson in September 1878. Copies of The Arizona Citizen from the period can be viewed on the Library of Congress website in the "Chronicling America" collection._

 _The advertisement for The Gem and the information on operations of the California and Arizona Stage Company were taken directly from the newspaper. There was also an advertisement of pianos for sale, to be shipped from the East, and a number of items available from San Francisco, since it was on the first transcontinental railroad line and was a major seaport._

 _Mechanical ceiling fans driven by windmills or, in some cases, steam engines, became popular in the American South in the 1870s. They used a series of belts on pulleys (and possibly water jets) to operate large, two-bladed fans to move air. The Gem, as a new, upscale establishment, would probably have had such devices._

 _Dime novels were quite popular, and many did feature real people in wildly fantastical roles bearing little resemblance to their actual lives. While there were many such books, "The Cactus Kid Meets the Lonely Hearts Gang" is purely a figment of my imagination._

 _Blue's artwork had actually appeared on the cover of and inside another dime novel, "The Left Handed Gun," in the Season Three episode "Generations," when Victoria sent the drawings to a publisher. The publisher offered Blue a job in St. Louis, but he declined it. Since Blue's absence in Season Four was not explained, my post-canon tale of the Cannons is that he went to Chicago instead to study art and open his own art studio.  
_

 _Finally, Deputy Rick, now Deputy U.S. Marshal Richard Larsson, was introduced briefly in Buck's chapter in "Wind and the Willow."_


	2. Shot 2: Tendrils of the Past

**Shot #2: Tendrils of the Past  
** by VStarTraveler

 ** _Summary_** _: In Shot Number 2, as Victoria watches the calendar for the approach of a very special but tragic anniversary, John must take a shot at helping her get through the tough time. Western/Family/Hurt/Comfort_

 ** _Disclaimer:_** _This story is a work of fiction, written entirely for fun and not for profit. This interpretation of The High Chaparral is entirely my own, and The High Chaparral and all of its various components remain the property of their respective owners. The poem, "There is no Death," by J. L. McCreery was originally published in 1863 and is no longer subject to copyright protections._

 ** _Author's Note:_** _This one-shot was the Winner of The Plight of the Little Known Fandom's September 2017 The Song Challenge, The Highwayman, Prompt #2._

* * *

 _The Montoya Hacienda,  
Sonora, Mexico  
March 1845_

Little Victoria was practically in heaven as she directed her new pony around the perimeter of the coral. She saw her parents, Don Sebastian and Doña María Montoya, standing just outside the rails, with Mamá holding little Mano's hand. If Victoria hadn't already been smiling so broadly, she would have started on realizing that Manolito wouldn't be able to do what she was doing for almost another whole year. Nonetheless, she giggled at the thought.

Her mother had made her promise to go slow on this, her first outing in front of her parents, but her riding instructor had taught her enough that she was sure she could handle it. Unlike her English tutor, she really liked Señor Ricardo, who had slowly been loosening the leads for her for several weeks. The young girl kicked her heels, spurring the pony forward quickly.

She saw a look of fear on her mother's face as she passed by, but her father clapped his hand over his mouth to hide his grin before Doña María caught him. Victoria grinned at her father as she looked back ahead.

Her eyes widened as she saw the pony had strayed too close to the rails so she pulled the rein to the left, but, too late, she realized she had overcorrected. The pony slewed to the side and stopped suddenly, causing Victoria to lose her balance and pitch forward, sideways off the pony. She gripped the reins tightly as fell into the dusty ring, which helped break her fall at least slightly.

Doña María screamed and shoved Manolito into the legs of one of the servant women standing behind them. Mano seemingly became entangled in the young woman's billowy skirts and he laughed out loud as he too fell to the ground.

Mamá rushed to Victoria's side and picked up the little girl who was whimpering more from skinning her arm than from the bruise she probably suffered in the fall.

"Oh, Victoria! I told you not to go fast!" cried Doña María as she quickly ran her hands over her daughter's limbs and body, feeling for broken bones at the same time as comforting the girl. "No more riding for you until you're bigger and then you'll learn to ride properly like a lady."

The girl had been biting her lip to try to stop her tears but now they flowed. "No, Mamá! I like to ride. I like to ride fast." She looked pleadingly at her father, but her mother wasn't done.

"Victoria, proper ladies don't ride fast like the men when they get big."

The girl wiped her tears and set her jaw firmly at her mother. "Then I don't want to get big. I want to be able to ride like the men."

"No, Victoria. You will get big someday, and then you will be a proper lady."

The girl struggled to rise before her mother. Putting her fists on her hips she said firmly, "If I can't ride like I want when I get big, then I just won't be a proper lady."

Doña María's brow furrowed, but not as much from her petulant daughter's statement as her husband's howling laughter.

~HC~

 _High Chaparral Ranch,  
Arizona Territory, U.S.A._  
 _Late April, 1878_

It was early in the morning and Victoria was about to light the fire in the kitchen stove to get started with breakfast. She picked up the top newspaper out of the stack and was about to roll it tightly when she saw the poem on the front page:

 _THERE is no death! the stars go down  
To rise upon some other shore,  
And bright in heaven's jewelled crown  
They shine forever more._

She'd read it several days before, so her eyes briefly flicked over the first stanza once again. Feeling the words tugging at her heartstrings, she stopped and quickly ripped out the work and put it on the shelf where she could read it again later. Victoria had a lot on her mind.

Spring branding was just around the corner, and the big drive to the railhead wasn't too far away. Joe and Francine's wedding, to be held at the ranch, was coming up in just a few weeks, too. Still, all of that was not what was bothering her.

It was, instead, the approaching anniversary, in just a few days, of the event twenty years earlier that had helped shape much of her adult life. Her dear mother, Doña María, had always been the picture of health and happiness, but the pains had struck her suddenly, fiercely, and she had died less than two days later.

With her mother gone, Victoria had become the mistress of the Montoya hacienda. Despite her father's best efforts to see her married, she had taken care of the man and his needs rather than seeing to her own happiness. She had easily deflected, or in several cases, declined, the intentions of her many suitors, using her father as a ready excuse despite the fact that it was he who was behind some of the suits.

Eventually though, Don Sebastian had seen through her little deception and pushed her out to take a number of extended trips in Mexico and the United States, followed a bit later by an extensive European tour with Mano and their friend Lord Ashbury, Tony Grey. When John Cannon had come calling on her father, Victoria had, at last, found herself ready, finally seeing the man and the dream that she knew could be her own.

"Are you okay, Señora?" asked Violeta.

Victoria wiped a tear on her sleeve as she looked into the stove to see the kindling catching fire.

"Yes, thank you, Violeta. I…I just got some smoke or dust in my eye from the stove. I'll be okay in a moment."

Her housekeeper nodded knowingly. Having worked with Victoria for a number of years, she was already very aware of the approaching date on the calendar and had seen her clip the poem from the paper.

~HC~

Buck and Mano had left earlier that morning to go to Tucson for supplies, so it was only John, Victoria, and the babies around the breakfast table. It had been almost a week and John had finally figured out why Victoria was acting so moodily. The date wasn't circled on the calendar, but it had finally jumped out at him.

"Victoria, Isabella has agreed to watch the children on Sunday afternoon. Would you like to go on a picnic? Just the two of us?"

Victoria was quite surprised. "Yes, John! Gladly! Where do you want to go?"

John smiled. There was at least a spark of the excitement that had been missing from her expression in recent days. "Well, there's water in the north creek right now, so I think that big cottonwood on the bank overlooking it would be a good spot. It has some nice grass and some shade."

"Oh, John! That would be an excellent spot, but…the Apaches. Aren't you a little concerned about being out there alone, just the two of us?"

"Yes, a bit. It's true that the Apaches have gone to the reservation, but there've been several recent reports of renegades in the territory, and you never know what other dangers there might be out there, so I figured we'd take a couple of guards with us."

She smiled. Knowing how efficient John was, she wasn't very surprised that he had already thought of this. "Good. Then I will fix a basket of fried chicken that they can split between them while we set up our picnic area, and then they can guard?"

"That sounds great," he said. Rising from the breakfast table to go, he kissed his wife and said, "Okay, I'll have the boys get the buckboard ready late Sunday morning—"

"No, John. Please, I want to go on horseback. I love to ride, but I haven't been on a horse since I became pregnant with the twins. I would really love to ride."

~HC~

 _The next afternoon…_

Victoria had just put Betsy and Bobby down for their afternoon nap and had given Isabella her school assignment for the afternoon. Entering the kitchen, she used the pump to draw a cup of water and then took a good sip of the cool liquid. She glanced at the clock and saw that it was time to start preparations for the evening meal, but a glance at the calendar on the wall made her pause. May 1st was less than a week away.

Reaching up on the shelf, she pulled down the poem she'd clipped, and then she sat down at the table to read part of it as she sipped her water.

 _There is no death! the dust we tread  
Shall change, beneath the summer showers,  
To golden grain, or mellow fruit,  
Or rainbow-tinted flowers._

 _There is no death! the leaves may fall,  
The flowers may fade and pass away—  
They only wait, through wintry hours,  
The warm sweet breath of May._

"Mrs. Cannon, excuse me. Some flowers for you."

Victoria looked up from the paper in her hand, a sad expression on her face. "Thank you, Ming-huá. They are lovely."

"You're welcome. Please pardon, but you seem very sad. Is there something I can do to help?"

"No, no. This is something of a special year for me; I'm remembering my sweet mother. She will have been gone twenty years in just a few days. I still miss her from time to time, but until recently, as the date started getting close, I guess I didn't realize how much."

The Chinese woman nodded and then bowed her head. "A mother is always loved by her child, and is never forgotten, even when she is gone long time...a long time. Time passes and seasons change, but that child's love does not."

Victoria studied Ming-huá's thoughtful expression. "Your mother has passed, too?"

"Yes, soon after I came to America. I finally received a letter from my home village over a year later. I said funeral rites and lit a candle for her, but her memory is still here, fresh as these flowers," she said as she put her hand over her heart.

Victoria pointed to the poem. "I've been reading this poem while thinking of my late mother, so perhaps it might comfort you, too."

 _Though life become a dreary waste,  
We know its fairest, sweetest flowers,  
Transplanted into paradise,  
Adorn immortal bowers._

 _The voice of bird-like melody  
That we have missed and mourned so long  
Now mingles with the angel choir  
In everlasting song._

Victoria paused for moment after finishing the stanzas. When she saw Ming-huá seemingly fighting tears, she added, "I'm sure your mother was one of those fair, sweet flowers like my own, and that they're now both in heaven singing praises together."

Ming-huá's eyes were watery when she looked up, but she seemed to have the start of a smile on her face. "Thank you, Mrs. Cannon. I believe you may be right."

~HC~

 _Sunday afternoon…_

It was a beautiful day and the bank overlooking the creek was every bit as lovely as John had promised and Victoria had hoped. A cloth was spread on the ground with John sitting on it and Victoria sitting next to and leaning against him. The open basket and the plates empty of all but some chicken bones showed that they had had a good meal. Billy and Grey were tied nearby and would have appeared perfectly peaceful if not for the watchful presences of Roy and Reno nearby and John's Winchester on the cloth next to them.

"John, you know I love my Grey." She giggled. "Your Grey. Our Grey. But I love my pretty Irene, too. I wish I could have ridden her today. It's been so long."

John smiled. The dappled gray stallion had been his when they'd moved to Arizona seven years earlier, but a sneaky horse thief named Manolito had made off with him and presented him to his sister as a gift. When Victoria realized what had happened, she had tried to return the horse to John, who had insisted that she keep him as his gift to her. "I'm sorry, Victoria, but Irene is just too far along. She should be foaling within the next the next few days or so. And you haven't ridden Grey in, what, ages?"

"True, but he gets lots of exercise in the work pool and you ride him sometimes, too," she said. "Irene is getting up in age, so I'll probably be riding him more in the future. I guess I just miss her because my parents gave her to me a few months before…"

"Before your mother passed away?"

"Yes. She's always reminded me of my mother because of that."

"Victoria, you've been thinking of her, haven't you. The anniversary of her passing?"

She nodded. "Every year, it's the same, in a way; I remember her and the good times we had, and then feel sad that she had to leave us so soon. This year seems much worse though, worse than since right after it happened. I think it's because I realized that this year means that she's been gone for longer than I had her with me. When her time came, she went so quickly, as if she was ripped away from us. The local doctor didn't know what was wrong so he sent for a doctor from Hermosillo, but that man didn't arrive until well after mother had passed. I wasn't expecting it and really didn't have time to prepare or to completely say goodbye. Now, twenty years later, I find that I still miss her, but I feel so silly about it. John, I've grieved and grieved...and I thought I'd gotten over it, but then I realize I still just miss her anyway. It's like a vine from the past that send out its little shoots, those little tendrils, that wrap around and trap us. It just won't let go."

Thinking of the poem, she quoted,

 _"There is no death! although we grieve  
When beautiful, familiar forms  
That we have learned to love are torn  
From our embracing arms;"_

"There's nothing silly about loving someone, Victoria, even if they're gone, since our love for the person is still in our heart. Those memories playing with our heartstrings are part of what makes love special and forever."

"Another apparently very wise person told me something very similar the other day," she said, squeezing John's hand as she forced a smile. She leaned her head against his arm, but he shifted, putting it around her and pulling her closer. They sat in silence, watching the water flow in the creek below them.

~HC~

May 1st, the day Victoria had been dreading, arrived and it arrived quite early.

Victoria had two roosters in the pen with her chickens, and the two seemed to be competing to see who could best announce the arrival of the new month, much less that of the new day. Victoria wondered briefly if she should cut back to one rooster again and serve the other one for dinner. If she could only figure out which was the loudest. Stifling a chuckle at the thought, she started to rise from their bed, but John put his hand on her arm.

"Not this morning, Victoria."

"What do you mean, John? I have work—"

"Not today, you don't. Violeta, Ming-huá, and the girl are going to take care of all of the cooking and the housework today. Sam, Buck, and Mano are taking care of all of the ranch business today, too, so the two of us are going to spend time together with each other and with our children."

"Really, John?"

It was too dark in the room to see, but he could tell from her voice that she was apprehensive, as if he might be playing a cruel joke. That, however, was not in his nature. "Really, Victoria. Unless you don't want that. If you think having us around will make it worse—"

"No! I would love spending the whole day with my family. It's going to be a wonderful day!"

~HC~

And what a wonderful day it was.

John and Victoria spent what felt, at least to John, like large parts of the day sitting on the floor with Bobby and Betsy as the children played and crawled and pulled up on their parents' fingertips. The children enjoyed listening to the stories their parents read or told, swinging on the porch swing, splashing in the wash tub filled with a few inches of water, and listening to Victoria's wind up music box. They liked seeing the tomcat that lived in the stable, too, until the aloof feline had had enough and hissed at them. Then it was off to see Irene in the stable and the other horses out in the corral.

Victoria also told a number of stories about her mother and father, and, when Buck and Mano joined them for a little while around lunch time, she included a few tales about Mano, too. The uncles enjoyed a bit of play with the kids, and Mano was able to add a few new tales about their parents and a couple about some of Victoria's childhood pranks before they, rather reluctantly, went back to work.

During afternoon nap time, Victoria was heading off to the kitchen when John stopped her. "And where do you think you're going? You're off today, remember?"

She smiled at him. "John, I'm going to the kitchen to bake a cake. I miss my mother greatly, that is true, and I can't forget her, but I'm not supposed to forget. Today I feel like celebrating her so others will also remember her."

Indeed, as she made the cake, the comforting words of the poem were with her:

 _Although with bowed and breaking heart,_  
 _With sable garb and silent tread,_  
 _We bear their senseless dust to rest,_  
 _And say that they are "dead."_

 _They are not dead! they have but passed_  
 _Beyond the mists that blind us here_  
 _Into the new and larger life_  
 _Of that serener sphere._

 _They have but dropped their robe of clay_  
 _To put their shining raiment on;_  
 _They have not wandered far away—_  
 _They are not "lost" or "gone."_

 _Though disenthralled and glorified,_  
 _They still are here and love us yet;_  
 _The dear ones they have left behind_  
 _They never can forget._

~HC~

Later that evening, Victoria shared cake and a story of her mother with her family, her staff, and all of the Bunkhouse Boys who wished to attend.

A short time later, the children were in bed when Mano came back in the house. "Victoria, I just checked on Irene. She is almost there. I believe she will be foaling in the morning."

"Gracias, Mano." Turning to John, she said, "I'm going out to check on her. Everyone has given me such comfort today, I'm going to rub her down and tell her what a good girl she is to try to comfort her, too."

"Let me get a lantern," said John, smiling. "New moon is tomorrow, so it will be pitch black soon."

They spent about half an hour with Irene in her stall and returned to the house to go to bed.

~HC~

The knocking at the bedroom door was insistent.

"John! Victoria!" called Buck from outside. "Wake up! Irene's foaling."

John rose from the bed and went to the door as Victoria wrapped her robe around over. "Buck, what's happening?"

"Mano went out to check on her and found her down. You better come."

"Be right there," replied John. Turning to Victoria, he saw her shed the robe and start to dress. "Victoria, I'll take care of this."

"No, John. She is my responsibility. I go, too."

Understanding, John nodded. They headed to the stable a couple of minutes later to see a sleepy Isabella peeking out the door of the children's bedroom.

"Mrs. Cannon, is everything okay?"

Victoria nodded her assurance. "It's okay, Isabella. Go back to bed, dear. We're going to check on my horse and will be back in a little while."

"Yes, ma'am." The door closed behind her.

On entering the stable, Victoria caught her breath. Irene was lying on her side, breathing shallowly but very quickly. Her coat appeared covered with sweat. Victoria fells to her knees by her horse's head and put her arms around her. "Mano, what happened to her? What happened to my sweet girl?"

"I came out to check on her and found her like this," he said. "She must have advanced faster than I thought and maybe had trouble. I'm sorry, Victoria. I really don't know. She must have collapsed."

John was nodding. "I thought the same as Mano. She must have been weaker than we thought or had something go wrong. If we're going to have any chance of saving her, we're going to have to get that foal out."

Rubbing her mare's head and soothing her well as she could, Victoria nodded.

~HC~

 _Almost an hour later..._

"It's a filly!" called Mano as he rubbed the towel on the foal. The little creature shook her head, wobbling her ears uncertainly. "She'll be up shortly and be needing milk. Look! She's trying again."

The little foal almost made it up this time, but then fell back to the ground.

"Yeah, she's going to be hungry when she does get up. We'll have to put her on Molly," said Sam, who'd come in a little earlier. "She's still nursing her foal and can foster this little girl 'til Irene can take her back." There was a hopeful tone in his voice.

"Good," said John. "Then she should be fine."

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, but the night wasn't over. Irene still lay on the ground, unmoving, but she was still breathing, still shallower and faster than normal, but not as bad as earlier.

Victoria shifted slightly from where she had been holding her mare's head. As she did, she realized that her legs were asleep from sitting in one position for so long.

"What about Irene? She's quiet now. Is she in pain? Is she suffering?" she asked, her eyes wet from all the tears she had shed.

John hesitated, looking to the other men, as he finished washing his hands. "I don't think she's in any more pain that would be expected considering what she's been through."

All three of the others nodded in agreement.

"Then will she make it?"

"It's too soon to know, Victoria. We've done everything we can for her for now, and can only let her rest and, hopefully, heal. Sam, let's send for the vet in Tucson this morning to see if there's anything he can do to help her. Either way, we'll know more in a day or so."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Cannon. I'll get someone to stay with her for the rest of the night and have a couple of boys head out at daybreak to fetch him."

"Thanks, Sam."

"Look, look!" said Buck as the little foal struggled to rise once more. "There…there she goes!"

"And she's up!" agreed Mano.

Victoria smiled slightly at the little horse, and then turned to Irene. "Rest well, dear," she said to her horse, wrapping an arm over her once more. Patting Irene's head, Victoria let her go and then tried to rise. Her legs wobbled almost as badly as the little foal's as she rose.

John caught her arm to steady her and then escorted her out of the stable after saying goodnight to the others. He operated the pump handle and held the lantern while Victoria cleaned up, and then he took a turn washing himself better than he'd been able to do inside in the bucket. As he was drying off, he looked up at her.

"I'm really sorry, Victoria. I wouldn't have allowed her to be bred if I'd thought this might happen."

"It's okay, John. No one could know; we all thought she'd be fine. Hopefully, she will be soon."

"Hopefully so," he agreed. He put his arm around her and then they walked together toward the house. "But there aren't any guarantees, Victoria."

"I know, John, and I understand. There are no guarantees about anything in life, but we have to take what comfort we can and do our best." She hesitated for a moment and then added. "With all I've been thinking about recently, I've been memorizing a poem that touches on that."

 _And sometimes, when our hearts grow faint_  
 _Amid temptations fierce and deep,_  
 _Or when the wildly raging waves_  
 _Of grief or passion sweep,_

 _We feel upon our fevered brow_  
 _Their gentle touch, their breath of balm;_  
 _Their arms enfold us, and our hearts_  
 _Grow comforted and calm._

 _And ever near us, though unseen,_  
 _The dear, immortal spirits tread;_  
 _For all the boundless universe_  
 _Is life—there are no dead._

John was contemplating the words when Victoria spoke again. "I think the poem has it right in many ways. Life goes on, even when some of us aren't here to experience it. My mother, Doña María is gone, but we remembered her earlier tonight and celebrated her life, 20 years later. Manolito and I, her children, survive and we remember her in our hearts, and her grandchildren, Bobby and Betsy, while they don't have any memory of her except for the stories we may instill in them, live on as her legacy."

"And we'll keep doing that," agreed John. "We'll tell them stories about all of their grandparents, so they'll someday remember and have an appreciation for those who have passed on before them." He opened the front door and they entered the house together.

A few minutes later, they had removed their dirty clothes and Victoria had them soaking in a tub in the kitchen. She climbed back into bed next to John, realizing that it would soon be time to get up.

"I love you, my husband," she said to him as she snuggled up close to him.

"I love you, too, Victoria," he replied. A quick kiss and John appeared ready to go back to sleep.

Victoria was about to extinguish the lamp when another thought crossed her mind.

"John, I'm sorry dear, but I was thinking of the little foal."

"What about her?"

"She will carry on for Irene after she is gone, too, like Mano and me for my parents. That foal is a reminder that Irene was here, too, and maybe Bobby and Betsy will ride her someday instead of Irene like I hoped."

John stifled a yawn before replying. "Then she's going to need a name. Would you like to name her after your mother?"

"John!" exclaimed Victoria as she punched his arm. "That just might be enough to cause my dear mother to wake from the dead, or at least roll over in her grave." She laughed lightly. "No, seriously, I don't think my mother would have appreciated that."

"Oh, sorry," he said rather sheepishly, trying to avoid chuckling.

"No, John, please don't be. In recently thinking about my mother, I realize now that I spent too much time dwelling on her loss rather than celebrating her memory. It's true that she wouldn't want a little horse, however cute, named after her, but we can use something else that reminds us of her without using her name. I think we'll call her La Doña."

John was so tired he would probably have agreed to just about anything, but that actually sounded good to him. "Perfect. I'll let the boys know in the morning. Now, put out that light and let's get some sleep while we still can."

Victoria smiled and then kissed him good night once more before extinguishing the lamp.

Her head had barely hit the pillow when a cock crowed. The second one sounded even before the first one had finished. She heard John sigh next to her in the darkness.

"John, what is wrong?"

"Victoria, I hate to say it but one of these days I may just have to kill those roosters."

 _The End_

* * *

 ** _Author's Notes:_**

 _Thank you so much for reading this story. Your reviews, comments, follows, and favorites will also be greatly appreciated. Background notes follow for those who might be interested._

 _Senora Montoya (Don Sebastian's wife and Victoria and Mano's mother) was never named in the series, so I've taken the liberty of assigning what seems to me to be an appropriate name, though I realized the comic book-like alliteration, María Montoya, only after the story was nearly complete. While the exact time is unknown from canon, it is known that Victoria's mother died some time after Victoria's 18th birthday since that was when she gave the young woman the precious necklace that is featured in the 3rd Season episode, "A Piece of Land." As the wife of Don Sebastian, she would have been called either Senora Montoya or Doña María by those in her charge._

 _According to Bob Hoy, who played Joe Butler on the show, Victoria's horse was Irene, a brown mare with a black mane and tail. The High Chaparral Dot Com (thehighchaparral dot com/horses dot htm) says that Irene was seen and referred to as Victoria's mare, but it isn't believed that she actually ever rode her in an episode. However, I believe she is seen at the very end of the First Season episode, "Survival," when Victoria and Vaquero arrive, riding out from behind the rocks. It appears that Victoria is riding western style (not side saddle), but it's difficult to tell from the angle and we don't actually see her dismount. John's dappled gray stallion that was stolen by Mano and given to Victoria was never named and was apparently never seen on screen again. I've called him, hopefully appropriately, Grey, in this story, and have assumed that he is still around._

 _Since I grew up on a farm with lots of cows and chickens and several roosters, Victoria's thought about the spare rooster was, sadly, not really original to this story. Luckily for our extra roosters, I never followed through on the idea either. My experiences on the farm also influenced parts of the scene with Irene._

 _At the end of the story, John mentions that it will be pitch black soon. The new moon was on May 2, 1878, so there would have been no moonlight on the evening of the 1st._

 _For any who might be interested, here's the full text of J. L. McCreery's poem:_

 **There is no Death  
** by J. L. McCreery  
1863

 _Part of this poem was published, uncredited, in the April 12, 1878, issue of The Arizona Citizen.  
I've assumed for the sake of the story that Victoria had access to the entire poem, which is printed below with its original capitalization, spelling, and punctuation:_

 _THERE is no death! the stars go down_  
 _To rise upon some other shore,_  
 _And bright in heaven's jewelled crown_  
 _They shine forever more._

 _There is no death! the forest leaves_  
 _Convert to life the viewless air;_  
 _The rocks disorganize to feed_  
 _The hungry moss they bear._

 _There is no death! the dust we tread_  
 _Shall change, beneath the summer showers,_  
 _To golden grain, or mellow fruit,_  
 _Or rainbow-tinted flowers._

 _There is no death! the leaves may fall,_  
 _The flowers may fade and pass away—_  
 _They only wait, through wintry hours,_  
 _The warm sweet breath of May._

 _There is no death! the choicest gifts_  
 _That heaven hath kindly lent to earth_  
 _Are ever first to seek again_  
 _The country of their birth._

 _And all things that for growth of joy_  
 _Are worthy of our love or care,_  
 _Whose loss has left us desolate,_  
 _Are safely garnered there._

 _Though life become a dreary waste,_  
 _We know its fairest, sweetest flowers,_  
 _Transplanted into paradise,_  
 _Adorn immortal bowers._

 _The voice of bird-like melody_  
 _That we have missed and mourned so long_  
 _Now mingles with the angel choir_  
 _In everlasting song._

 _There is no death! although we grieve_  
 _When beautiful, familiar forms_  
 _That we have learned to love are torn_  
 _From our embracing arms;_

 _Although with bowed and breaking heart,_  
 _With sable garb and silent tread,_  
 _We bear their senseless dust to rest,_  
 _And say that they are "dead."_

 _They are not dead! they have but passed_  
 _Beyond the mists that blind us here_  
 _Into the new and larger life_  
 _Of that serener sphere._

 _They have but dropped their robe of clay_  
 _To put their shining raiment on;_  
 _They have not wandered far away—_  
 _They are not "lost" or "gone."_

 _Though disenthralled and glorified,_  
 _They still are here and love us yet;_  
 _The dear ones they have left behind_  
 _They never can forget._

 _And sometimes, when our hearts grow faint_  
 _Amid temptations fierce and deep,_  
 _Or when the wildly raging waves_  
 _Of grief or passion sweep,_

 _We feel upon our fevered brow_  
 _Their gentle touch, their breath of balm;_  
 _Their arms enfold us, and our hearts_  
 _Grow comforted and calm._

 _And ever near us, though unseen,_  
 _The dear, immortal spirits tread;_  
 _For all the boundless universe_  
 _Is life—there are no dead._


	3. Shot 3: A Most Unintentional Hero

**Shot #3: A Most Unintentional Hero  
** by VStarTraveler

 ** _Summary_** _: In Shot #3, A Most Unintentional Hero, Sam Butler gets some unexpected time off. While on the way to town, he does what he has to do to rescue a man, but the man can't keep the news to himself, thereby giving Sam a shot at being the hero he really doesn't care to be. Western/Adventure_

 ** _Disclaimer:_** _This story is a work of fiction, written entirely for fun and not for profit. This interpretation of The High Chaparral is entirely my own, and The High Chaparral and all of its various components remain the property of their respective owners._

 ** _Author's Note:_** _This one-shot was written for and **First Place Winner** of the Caesar's Palace Forum's October 2017 Monthly Contest with the prompt "secrets."_

* * *

 _Braaah!_

"Release!"

The gate slid open and the yearling shot out of the chute. Even as Buck slammed the release gate closed once more, the young steer bucked a couple of times, perhaps trying to throw the new brand off of its backside before joining the rest of the herd in the second field.

"Next!" called Sam Butler as he put the branding iron back over the coals to heat.

With the loading gate open, Pedro and Tex drove the next steer in the queue into the narrow stall. Mano and Chuck pushed the gate closed, with Jorge driving the next cow, a heifer, back, to seal the young steer in the space by itself.

"Closed," called Mano, who held it in place while Jorge and Chuck switched over to lean against the rocker cradle. This pinned the beast against the side of stall, and Sam quickly applied another "HC" branding iron that was already red hot.

 _Braaaaaah! Braaah!_

The cradle rocked away and Sam gave the release order once more.

He was about to order the next one be brought into the chute when hoofbeats drew his attention. It was Tommy and his roundup crew driving about fifteen more head into the fenced area.

"This is the last of them, Sam," he called as he drew to a halt. "The boys scoured the whole south pasture and there's not a single beef left 'cept what you got left here."

"Good. Thanks, Tommy. Shift the boys on over. Mr. Cannon's gonna' want us to get this part of the herd to join the main group, so start moving them that way." Looking at the corral, he added, "We've got, what, 25, maybe 30 left? We'll be done here before the rest are really underway."

A short time later, the last head in the queue was driven into the stall and Sam applied the last brand of the season just as John rode up.

"Sir, how's Reno?" asked Sam as John dismounted from Billy.

"He'll be fine but is going to be sore for a while. Victoria didn't think it was broken, but she won't be sure for a day or two until the swelling goes down. We'll take him to town to see Doc Plant if it doesn't."

"Good," said Sam.

Pedro, watching from the side, added, "And in the meantime, I guess he's feeling good with some medicinal whiskey?"

John laughed. "Pedro, I don't know if I'd say 'good,' but definitely better."

All of the hands laughed.

Looking at the empty corral and fencing, he added, "Sam, you said the chute system would speed up the branding process, but I'm really surprised at how efficient it was. You beat your schedule by over two full days and no one other than Reno got hurt."

"Thank you, Mr. Cannon. It worked even better than I expected. That article in the cattlemen's journal didn't describe it that well, so we had to work with it a bit at first, but once we got going, it worked really well."

"It really did, John, like a charm," agreed Buck. Mano and the others were nodding in agreement, too.

John looked over everything. "Very good. Sam, have the boys break everything down and then join me in my office as soon as you can."

"Yes, sir." Turning to the branding crew, Sam added, "You heard Mr. Cannon. Let's cool, dry, and oil those irons, get this fire out, and get all those gates closed. Pedro, Chuck, load up the buckboard..."

About forty-five minutes later, Sam knocked on the door to John's office. "You asked to see me, Mr. Cannon."

John looked up from his work and waved to a chair. He showed Sam his plans for increasing the water supplies with new cisterns and took Sam's advice on one suggested change. When that was done, he turned to the cabinet and pulled out a bottle and two shot glasses. This was John's good whiskey that he reserved for special occasions. Pouring a shot in each, he pushed one of the glasses over to Sam.

"To a fine job, Sam." Their glasses clinked lightly. "You saved us over two days on your estimate, which was already a couple of days less than if we'd done the branding the old way. I must admit to having had serious doubts that first day or so."

Sam smiled. "Hate to admit it, sir, but so did I."

John laughed. "You hid it quite well. You convinced the boys to keep working at it until they got your method down. That made them succeed, and, though Reno might disagree, to do it much more safely, overall, too."

"Yes, sir. I hope we'll use this method again next year. Now that we've got everything built and have experience with it, things should go faster and smoother next year."

"Oh, we will, Sam. Believe me, we will. For now, though, we have a little situation."

Sam's eyes widened. "Really, sir? What's that?"

John smiled. "Your brother is getting married in a little over two weeks, and you know that he and Francine are planning a trip to San Fran that will take several weeks."

Sam nodded. Joe was quite excited about the wedding and had even asked Sam to be his best man.

"Since Joe's the assistant foreman and since he's going to be gone for close to a month, you're probably not going to have much time off while he's gone. You've got a week saved up already, Sam, and I'm going to add three days to that as a bonus for a job well done. Would you like to take some or all of that time now?"

Sam was quite surprised. "Mr. Cannon, I don't know what to say. Thank you! That would be really nice if you can spare me."

"You've got it, Sam. Pay day's not 'til Friday, but I'm going to give your this now since you won't be here Friday to collect."

Sam took the payment with another "thank you" but a moment later, he added, "Mr. Cannon, there's too much here."

"No, it's a bonus for a job well done, Sam. All of the boys will be getting a little extra in theirs, too. So, when do you want to take off?"

"It's still fairly early, sir. If you don't mind, I'd like to leave this afternoon."

"That would be fine, Sam. "Do you have any idea where you might be going?"

"Yes, sir," said Sam with a smile but without volunteering any information. "I'll see you next weekend."

~HC~

It was sunset and Sam was still about three to four miles outside of Tucson. He'd packed quickly, loaded Rudy with his provisions, and was about to mount when Victoria came running out of the house calling his name. She had handed him a bag of food to take with him.

"Be careful, Sam, and come home safely," she'd said. "And if you just so happen to see Mr. and Mrs. Casement in your travels, please tell them I said hello."

Sam had smiled. "Thank you, Mrs. Cannon. If I run into them, I will."

She'd returned his smile and then turned and run back to the house where John joined her. Arm in arm, they'd waved goodbye and Sam rode out from the ranch without telling anyone his destination. After all, Sam Butler was a very private man.

In actuality, Sam had been looking forward to some time off for a while. A lot of changes had occurred over the past year, and he had slowly been adjusting to them.

It had started when his little brother had met a nice widow and fallen in love. Sam was worried that this would pull the Butler brothers apart since Francine and her sons wouldn't want to live in the bunkhouse, but the Cannons had welcomed the idea of the new additions. The Cannons had offered to build a new house on the ranch for the couple, so Joe and Francine had agreed to postpone the wedding to the spring until the house was done. The boys had been working on it after hours and it was almost complete. Sam had been happy for them, but it was when Mr. Cannon had approached him that things had changed.

"Sam, you're part of our family. If you ever get to the point that you want to expand your family, you'll still be welcome here, and we'll do the same for you that we're doing for Joe."

Sadly, Sam hadn't had any family, other than his brother, since his wife, Trini, and daughter, Pilar, had been killed five years before. It had taken him a long time to grieve their loss and to ultimately accept what had happened in San Felipe, but, years later, he had finally decided that he was ready to move on.

Now he was actually looking forward to going to town for some much needed rest and relaxation, but not only for that. After so many years, Sam had finally met a woman that interested him.

He'd met her about six weeks earlier in Tucson while on a relatively rare day off. They'd hit it off right away and had even had dinner together. They'd gotten together two more times since then and Sam felt that their budding relationship could be real and lasting, but he hadn't told anyone. Sam had always been something of a private person, keeping his personal business, his secrets, close to his vest, even when he went to deal with the situation with his late daughter. Besides, with Joe getting married soon, he didn't want to do anything to distract from Joe and Francine's big day. If his situation with Beckie was real, it could wait a little longer to be revealed.

Their last visit had been about three weeks before, so as Sam rode, he couldn't get Beckie off of his mind. If things went like he hoped, he was going to see about formalizing their relationship.

Therefore, he was nearing the so-called bluffs southeast of town when he saw someone atop one of them. The man appeared to be working with a tripod as if he was, perhaps, a surveyor. As he continued to close, he saw the man lift a shroud and put it over his head, but then suddenly remove it, grab up the tripod and a bag sitting on the ground next to it, and start running down the side of the hill.

Giving Rudy a nudge to pick up speed, Sam continued watching as he rode forward. He saw the man reach the bottom of the hill and run behind a rock outcropping. The man emerged from behind the outcropping just a moment later, sitting on the seat of a panel-type wagon drawn by a single horse. The man was using the harness reins rather wildly to get all he could out of the poor animal.

In the evening shadows, it was a bit hard to see but a chunk of the back corner of the wagon suddenly splintered. Sam heard the gunshot just a moment later, plus the sound of several others. He turned to his right to see three riders with revolvers drawn galloping headlong around the base of the bluff in pursuit of the wagon that was just starting through the low pass that led toward Tucson.

Seeing that the riders meant the wagon driver ill will, Sam spurred Rudy on as he drew his Winchester. He was still too far away to take an accurate shot and riding too fast to take much of an aimed one, so he slid the sight as far forward as it would go and then lifted the rifle one handed to his shoulder as he rode. As he'd guessed, the sight was moving far too rapidly to be of any use so he aimed the barrel in the general direction of the riders, elevated it so the round would probably be in their general vicinity, and fired off the long shot more as a distraction than for effect.

Unable to operate the lever to reload, he flipped the barrel downward, letting the gun's own weight tip it around the lever rather than the other way around as usual. The spent casing was ejected out the top and a new cartridge entered the chamber as Sam flipped the rifle back up. It wasn't good for the gun to operate it this way, but in an emergency…

Sam brought it up again and fired again, and started through the same reloading procedure once more.

This time the shot, or perhaps the sound, drew the attention of the wagon's attackers. They turned to see what appeared to be a madman galloping toward them with his rifle in play. Seeing that he was rapidly closing the distance, the men turned and fled.

Sam continued on after the wagon, which was careening along as if out of control. As he passed the side of the wildly swaying vehicle, he saw a sign painted on the side that read, "Roland Willis, Photographer." On catching up to the runaway horse, he saw that the frightened driver was now little more than a frightened passenger holding on for dear life since he'd dropped the reins sometime after the start of his flight.

"Whoa, boy!" called Sam as he grabbed the harness and used Rudy to help stop the runaway horse. "Whoa!"

As the horse stopped, Sam turned back, hoping not to see a gun aimed his way. Seeing none, he said, "My name's Sam Butler from the High Chaparral. I helped scare off those men who were chasing you. Are you okay, mister?"

He was greeted by a strong New England accent from the man in the dapper green suit with a matching bowler. "How do I know you're not part of that group of outlaws?"

"Well, I'm the foreman at the High Chaparral working for Big John Cannon." Sam laughed. "I don't have time to be part of an outlaw gang."

"I've heard of your High Chaparral. Even met a woman who's marrying someone who works there."

"I suspect that would be Francine. She's marrying my brother Joe."

"Aye, I guess you're who you say you are. Thanks for driving off those bandits and for getting me out of this mess. They almost scared me to death. Name's Roland Willis."

"Photographer," deadpanned Sam.

"Hmm, how'd you know?"

Sam sighed. "Listen, Mr. Willis, it's gonna be real dark, real soon, and we need to get on into town before we run into those guys again or possibly something worse. Can you hold on to these reins?"

Twenty-five minutes later, the two men rode into town. Stopping at the livery stable, Sam dismounted from Rudy while Mr. Willis lit the lamp on the front of his rig. "My house is a little way away, but my office is on Main Street. How much do I owe you for your assistance, Mr. Butler?"

Sam shook his head. "Not at thing, Mr. Willis. Neighbors and those who can in the West just do what they can to help their neighbors and those in need."

"I'm finding the people in the West to be like that, Mr. Butler, except for the half who want to steal your equipment or shoot you dead."

Sam laughed. "Sadly, I guess there are far too many of those, too. And please, just call me Sam."

"Okay, Sam, I'm Roland. Listen, I'm new in Tucson. I've only been here for a few weeks and I know next to no one. People aren't exactly beating down my shop door to get pictures taken, either. I've done a couple of wedding pictures like the one for Miss Francine and taken pictures of a few kids and families, but not nearly enough to make a living. I'd really appreciate it if you'd stop by my office in the morning. You can't miss it. I want to at least say a proper 'thank you' and show you something."

"Sounds good, Roland. I'll stop by to say hello, but please, don't make a big deal out of this and don't tell anyone about it. Like I said, that's just what neighbors do to help each other out here. It's getting late, so good night."

~HC~

After getting Rudy boarded at the livery stable, Sam checked in at Miss Mabelle's boarding house, and then walked the four blocks to Beckie Ames' home. His heart felt as if it was fluttering as he walked along, thinking of what he was going to say to her. He was smiling broadly at the thought of having her as his girlfriend, and perhaps someday, hopefully, as his wife. Perhaps they could even have a family.

As he rounded the corner, he was surprised to find a horse tied to the post out in front of Beckie's little house. Making his way up the walk to the front steps, he was even more surprised when the door opened and a man stepped out, followed by Beckie. She was laughing lightly when they came out, but her laughter ended when Sam stepped into the light.

"Sam! What are you doing here?"

The man, on seeing Sam, looked at Beckie and said, without giving Sam a moment to speak, "Good night, Beckie. Thank you for a great supper and a lovely evening." As he passed Sam, he nodded with a smirk.

"Hello, Beckie. I came to see you, but it looks like I'm too late."

"Oh, Sam. I'm so sorry. It's been three weeks since you were here and I didn't know when you might be back again." Her head was down, with her eyes focused on her feet. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I met Mr. Miller and before I knew it, I asked him—"

Sam interrupted, saying, "Beckie, please don't. It's okay and I'll be fine. I just thought we might have had something,"

 _"_ I did, too, Sam, but I wasn't sure _when_ we might have it, so I guess I just kept looking. Please give me another chance. I'll wait for you this time."

"No, Beckie, you wouldn't."

Hurting inside more than he expected, and not really sure he was doing the right thing, he told her goodbye and walked away.

~HC~

Sam didn't sleep well that night, but by the next morning, he had a plan. He checked out of the boarding house, collected Rudy from the livery stable, and loaded him up with some supplies and a couple of small gifts purchased at a nearby store. Then, it was a short ride to Roland Willis' shop. He was just tying the horse to the hitching rack when he saw the dapper young man approaching the shop.

"Sam! Good morning, my friend," Roland said with a smile. "Welcome to my shop. Come on in."

He quickly showed Sam the shop and some of the photos he'd taken, including a couple of previous sunsets he'd taken outside of town. "That's what I was doing last night, trying to get a good one I can send back east with some of the terrain in the background. Some of the collectors are really interested in those and will pay good money for the right one."

"These are really nice, Roland."

"Thanks! Say, let me take a picture of you. I like nature shots but portraits are the photographer's bread and butter. If somebody likes the shot, then they tell a friend and so on. Here, come right over here. Have a seat while I get these lamps lit."

Reluctantly, Sam agreed. Seated with his back straight, he felt the heat from the lime lights on his face.

"It's theatrical lighting," said Roland on seeing Sam looking at them. "The constant light can give a better image than the powder flash that can create unexpected shadows, but the person posing has to be still for a little longer for me to get a good image. Chin up, a little more now. To the right, just a hair. Oop, just a bit more. There! Perfect! Now, stay still, take a shallow breath and hold it. Hold! Hold! Got it!"

Sam breathed a sigh of relief and was out of the light as quickly as he could.

"Sam, that's going to be a fine, fine picture. I'll have it ready for you later today."

"Thanks, Roland, but that's okay. I'm actually going out of town for a few days, so I'll pick it up when I get back, if that's okay."

"Sure thing, Sam. I look forward to seeing you then."

~HC~

After leaving the photography shop, Sam headed north to see Dan and Sarah Casement. Dan was an even more private person than Sam, but, after some effort, Sam had finally become Dan's friend and Sarah Colton had finally captured Dan's heart. On Sam's last visit a year earlier, he'd found the couple with an eight month old boy and another child on the way.

It was a long ride, but Sam arrived at the ranch just before nightfall. He spent three days with them and their two toddler sons, helping Dan and his two ranch hands make some improvements around the ranch before finally saying goodbye and making the long ride back to Tucson. After the incident with Beckie, he'd decided to spend the last two days of his little vacation with whiskey and cards and well away from women.

Having said goodbye to the Casement family very early in the morning, he entered Tucson in the early evening. As he rode down the street, he saw two boys about six to eight years of age run out in front of him. He quickly reined Rudy to a halt.

"Excuse me, mister. Are you Mr. Butler? Can I shake your hand?" asked the older boy.

The younger boy pointed to his pistol. "Can we see your gun, Mr. Butler?"

Sam, not wanting to see the children get hurt, climbed off of Rudy and then squatted down in the street to be roughly at eye level with them. "Listen, boys, you don't ever run out in front of a man on horse. You can get hurt. Okay?"

"Yes, Mr. Butler," said both, almost in unison.

"Now, how'd you boys know who I am?"

"Everyone knows who you are, Mr. Butler. You're famous!" said the oldest one.

"Char-lie! Jer-ry!" came a woman's cry from one of the side streets.

"Bye, Mr. Butler!" said the older one. "That's Ma! We got to run."

Sam waved to their backs and laughed as he walked on down the street toward the livery stable. He was about to take Rudy inside when he saw a sign posted on the side of building. What was surprising was the poster had his picture on it with the word "HERO!" below it in big block letters.

Below the big word, there was a note in smaller letters that told how "Hero Sam Butler" scared off bandits to save Roland Willis, Photographer. "For all of your photography needs, come see Roland Willis, Photographer, Main Street."

"The great hero has returned!" laughed Herbie, the livery man's assistant.

Sam ripped down the poster, and then set Rudy up for the night. As he did, he said to Herbie, "Please tell me this is a joke and that it's the only one."

"May be a joke," agreed Herbie, "but that ain't the only one by a long shot. I seen 'em plastered all up and down Main Street, and even a couple on side streets."

Sam Butler rarely cursed, but he said a bad word that wasn't quite as far under his breath as he'd intended.

"Yep, that's about the shape of it," laughed Herbie.

After telling the livery man good night, Sam headed down the street where he soon found and removed four more copies of the poster. When he reached Roland's shop, he saw that the young man had already closed for the evening, but that wasn't the only thing. Just inside the front window was another copy of the poster declaring Sam Butler to be a hero. Sam shook his head and said his second curse word of the day.

Seeing that there was nothing he could do at the moment, Sam decided to check back with Roland the next morning. For now, he was tired and thirsty, so he headed to Miss Mabelle's boarding house with his bedroll, saddlebags, rifle, and canteen.

"Sam Butler! Why didn't you tell us what you did with that photographer man? Come right in here and let me look at this hero!" Miss Mabelle was quite excited to have a certified celebrity staying in her house.

Three other men were in the front hall and they started clapping Sam on the back, making almost as much fuss as Miss Mabelle. "Quick, find Henry and the others! We're gonna' get Sam to tell us the story! Come on, get all the guys down here!"

The hubbub and confusion were too much for Sam. Frustrated, he slipped out the door and made his way down the street, pulling down another three posters as he went. With a heavy paperboard backing, he folded them in half and carried them with him.

Three blocks away, he found a new hotel he'd never seen before. It looked brand new, so he went inside, hoping that the people inside wouldn't recognize him any more than he recognized the establishment. Sure enough, not a word was said, so he took a room, deposited his belongings, and then made his way to the parlor. There, he poured a shot of whiskey from the bottle on the fireplace and sat down to read the latest edition of the _The Arizona Citizen_. He was about half way through the paper when he heard someone enter the room and stop.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting anyone to be here," she said.

"No, please, there are plenty of seats," said Sam, putting down the paper as he rose. "Please, have one."

The very properly dressed young woman of perhaps thirty years of age thanked him and sat down. She pulled a large book out of her bag and started reading, so Sam continued with the newspaper.

It was a couple of minutes later when the young woman spoke. "Excuse me, sir, but are you the person on the hero poster?"

"Unfortunately," Sam said rather grumpily.

She looked surprised. "Well, I want to say that was a mighty fine thing you did to save that poor man. Thank you, sir." She went back to her reading for a bit but finally rose and said, "Have a pleasant evening. Mr. Butler, is it?"

"Yes, ma'am. Sam Butler. You have a nice evening, too, miss."

"Miss Julia Talbert, and thank you," she said with a smile as she left to go up to her room.

Sam smiled and then went to bed a short time later.

~HC~

The next morning, Sam swung by the livery stable to check on Rudy.

"Morning, Sam. You'll never guess who got here a little after you last night." Herbie was smiling like a Cheshire cat.

Not wanting to play the silly game, Sam replied, "The governor?"

Herbie's smile turned to puzzlement. "No. Why would the governor be here?"

"I have no idea," replied Sam with a sigh of frustration. "Who was it, Herbie?"

"Buck Cannon and that Montoya boy. I told 'em you were here."

Sam rolled his eyes. He had to find the rest of those posters before Buck or Mano saw them or he'd never hear the end of it. Fortunately, he thought he'd gotten all of them between the livery stable and the boarding house and the closest saloon. He took off down the street at a quick clip.

Thirty minutes later, he was standing outside Roland Willis' shop when the photographer arrived to open for business. Sam was holding the remains of seven more posters in his hand.

"Sam! Just the person I wanted to see! Have you seen the posters I put up? Business is booming—wait. Where'd you get those?"

Sam resisted his first urge. Pausing for a moment while he removed the one from inside the shop window, he finally said, "Roland, I got them off the walls and poles and places like this where you put them. I asked you not to tell anyone about what happened, but you not only tell people about it, you put my picture on it."

"But Sam, it's good publicity! People see it and appreciate what you did and they support me, too. It's good for both of us. I was even going to send a note to _The Arizona Citizen_ to see if they wanted to write an article about it."

"No way," said Sam, shaking his head. "This better not end up in the paper. No telling who might see that. Now, how many of these things did you put up?"

"Uh, I think it was twenty."

"Okay, just five more to go. Tell me where you put them. I need to get the rest down before the wrong people see them."

Unfortunately, though Sam didn't know it, it was already too late. Someone already had.

~HC~

It was getting close to noon when Sam got back to the hotel with what he hoped was the last of the posters. His count was off by one, but he'd searched and searched for it with no luck, so he assumed that he'd just miscounted.

The small hotel lobby was rather crowded with three very dusty men, including one with a pair of crude crutches. They looked like they'd just arrived and were waiting for their rooms.

Sam rang the bell, but the hotel proprietor didn't come. Turning to the men, Sam asked, "Is Mr. Clark upstairs getting your rooms ready?"

The man on crutches grimaced as he said, "Yep."

Sam thanked the man and stepped around to the back of the front desk. He quickly ripped the collected posters in half, dropped them in the small waste basket, and then got the key to his room out of its slot. When he turned around, he saw two Colt revolvers pointed at him, and Crutches with his hand on his pistol grip ready to draw.

"Git yur hands up, Mister Butler," said Crutches.

"Not stealing anything. I'm just collecting my room key," Sam said, not sure why they would have the drop on him or know his name.

"Big heroes git dead quick if they don't listen. Git'em up."

Sam's hands were up when he asked, "Do I know you, gentlemen?"

"No, Mr. Butler, you shore don't know us, but we know you. You were the big hero man who started shooting at us out at the bluffs the other day and shot me in the butt! Then, ta' make matters worse, you come ta' town and brag about it. Well, Mr. Hero, it took us a while to find ya', but we're gonna' give you somethin' to think about so ya' won't be braggin' no more."

Crutches turned to the man on the left and added, "Vince, make shore the owner's still tied up back there an' then get them horses ready. We're gonna' bring big Mr. Hero out the back."

As Vince stepped by, he opened the door to the small office behind the desk and peeked in at the owner, who was tied and gagged. Sam's eyes quickly took in the scene. With only one gun on him, his mind was racing to see how he could change the odds to his favor. However, when help came, it was from an unexpected direction.

"Mr. Butler! What's going on down here?" Miss Julia Talbert was on the fifth step when she said it, drawing the attention of both bandits.

Sam shouted, "Run, Miss Talbert!" as he slammed into the tall counter, tipping it forward into Crutches, who went down screaming in pain.

A large black book came flying into the room and hit the other bandit. Sam drew his Colt and fired as the man was trying to draw a bead on Sam. The man fell, grabbing his shoulder.

Sam was just turning toward the back door when Vince ran back into the room, slamming his pistol down on Sam's hand.

It was Sam's turn to wince in pain as his gun went flying, but he didn't hesitate as he threw himself against Vince, knocking him to the floor. Somewhere, in the distance, he heard a woman screaming. His fist smashed into Vince twice, but something else slammed into him repeatedly and the world went black.

~HC~

"I think he may be waking up."

Sam kept his eyes closed but the voice sounded a lot like Manolito.

"Yeah, Mano, I do believe he's stirrin'."

Unmistakenly Buck. Sam slowly raised his hand toward his head when a feminine voice said, "No, Mr. Butler. You don't want to touch that right now."

He opened his eyes but could only see out of one. Buck and Mano were standing at the end of the bed, and a woman wearing an apron was standing next to him, dabbing part of his forehead with a cool cloth.

His tongue felt thick as he said, "I can't see out of my left eye."

"It's swollen pretty badly, Mr. Butler, but the doctor said we could take the bandages off of it tomorrow. For now, he said you're to stay put and rest." She put the cloth away, and then bent down where he could see her face. Miss Julia Talbert gave him a little smile and said, "Can I get you some soup, Mr. Butler?"

Buck and Mano quickly filled Sam in while Miss Talbert was downstairs. "That young lady screamed out the window and got near half of Tucson's attention," said Buck. "Mano and I were going to get some breakfast at the saloon when we heard her, and we come running, too."

"She definitely has a good set of lungs," agreed Mano. "You're here, safer than not, and all three of the robbers are now in the jail because of Señorita Talbert. She's stayed with you all day, my friend, so I'm going to give her a break by taking her to dinner with me."

Sam frowned at Mano. "Don't even think about it, amigo."

Buck laughed. "So tell us, Sam, why'd those three get in a tussle with you, anyway? The owner said they took his money, but then seemed to be waiting on somebody."

Sam started to shake his head but found that it hurt to move. With the posters down, this was a secret better left untold. "You know, Buck, sometimes things just happen for no reason."

Miss Talbert reentered the room carrying a tray with a glass of water, a tureen of soup, and a bowl. "If you gentlemen will excuse us, Mr. Butler really needs his rest."

Sam raised his hand to shake Mano's but saw that his hand was bandaged, too. "Bye Buck, Mano," he said weakly as his hand fell back to the bed. He watched Miss Talbert smiling as she shooed the two out of the room.

"Okay, Mr. Butler, we're going to get you something to eat and then have you get some sleep."

"Sam. My name's Sam."

Her smile was so lovely. "I know that, Mr. Butler. Now, you be still and we're going to get some of this soup in you," she said as she ladled some into the bowl. "Slowly, with small sips."

It took a while, but spoon by spoon, he finished the bowl, and then took a sip of water, too. She stepped out while he relieved himself in the chamber pot, and then came back in to clean his hands and face.

He smiled weakly. "Thank you for helping me, Miss Talbert."

She looked at him for a few moments as if trying to make a decision before finally saying, "Sam, my name's Julia. Now, you get some rest. I'll be right here if you need me."

He watched as she sat down in the rocker beside the bed. Through a heavy eyelid he could barely keep open, he saw her reach into her bag and pull out the big book she'd thrown at the bandit. His eye closed but he fought it, trying to keep it open just a little longer so he could continue to look at her lovely face.

His eye was closing once more when he saw her pick the bag back up again and reach inside. His lid fluttered and he forced it open one more time to see her holding a rectangle that looked about the same size as those silly posters. Miss Talbert looked at it intently, biting her lower lip as she smiled, before turning to look at Sam once more.

Sam's barely open eye eased closed for the last time of the evening, but before he was completely asleep, he thought he heard her say, "Sam Butler. My hero."

 _The End_

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_**

 _This story takes place in mid May, 1878._

 _Sam Butler was always my favorite of the Bunkhouse Boys. He was tough and private, but we saw a few episodes where he had a very human side, too. I hope I've portrayed that well here.  
_

 _Tommy, played by veteran character actor Myron Healey (the second Doc Holliday on "The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp"), only appeared in "The New Lion of Sonora," one of the last episodes of the series, but he appeared to be an experienced and trusted hand. I always felt he would have been a great addition to the cast if the show had continued for another season._

 _Dan Casement, played by Barry Sullivan, appeared in two 4th season episodes where Sam and Victoria played important parts. Mrs. Colton, portrayed by Priscilla Poiner, was introduced in the second of these. I've followed Victoria's belief that she would be going with Mr. Casement when he returned home and have taken the liberty to give her the first name, Sarah._

 _Finally, thanks to everyone for reading this story, and special thanks go to Bio, Junebug, Rebecca, and TS for the great feedback on Shot #2. I'll also greatly appreciate it if readers will take a moment to leave a comment or other feedback on this shot, too. Thanks!_


	4. Shot 4: Just a Simple Little Wedding

**Shot #4: Just a Simple Little Wedding**  
by VStarTraveler

 ** _Summary:_** _In Shot #4, Just a Simple Little Wedding, it's time for Joe and his fiancé to tie the knot at High Chaparral. When Victoria agrees to host, the plan is for it to be a simple little ceremony; however, as unexpected events start occurring, things become a little complicated. Western/adventure/humor. One Shot._

* * *

 _La Hacienda Montoya,  
Sonora, Mexico  
El Verano (summer), 1848_

Manolito Montoya heard his slightly older "big" sister speaking in French with their mother. He knew it was French because he was forced to spend an hour a day with his French tutor.

Well, the man wasn't exactly his French tutor; no, the _maître_ was actually Victoria's French tutor. He had been hired for her by their father, Don Sebastian, following his sister's campaign of what Manolito considered to be outright begging, though with far too much support, in his eyes, from their mother, Doña María.

Unfortunately, as in too many other things, their padre saw no value in having the French master on the grounds and inactive for the other 22 hours a day, so Manolito had been forced to take French lessons for an hour a day, too. Therefore, while he really didn't understand the words his mother and sister were saying, he was quite sure the words were spoken in French.

The clock chimed and his mother sighed as she waved her lacy black fan against the afternoon heat. For probably the hundredth time, Manolito wondered if his mother might be a bit cooler if she wouldn't wear all the layers of clothing, or, if nothing else, use a fan with fewer holes.

"Victoria, Manolito," said their mother in English, "It is now English period."

"Yes, Mother," replied Victoria with a practiced curtsy.

Manolito rolled his eyes. If there was anything he disliked more than French period, it had to be English period. Despite the outcome of the recent war with their upstart northern neighbor, or possibly because of it, Don Sebastian felt it was critical that his children not only be able to speak English to communicate with the _estadounidenses_ from north of the border but to speak it properly. While the Don didn't really push little Mano with his French lessons, the man demanded careful attention in his daily sessions with the snooty English tutor and regular progress in his advancement in the English language as well as in his regular school subjects. The children were already in their third year of instruction in English, so Manolito played his usual game of listening more closely to the discussion in English.

"But, Mother, it would be very good for me and would make me more well-rounded."

Manolito couldn't help himself; he snickered out loud. Doña María glanced at her son with a frown, though she was clearly also trying to keep from laughing at having her own usual trump card in arguments with her daughter thrown back at her for a change. Looking back at the girl, she sighed and then replied, "Alright, Victoria, I make no promises, but, if you'll promise to practice daily and practice hard, I'll speak to your father about getting you a piano tutor."

The young girl was nodding hard in response to her mother's statement, but on realizing what this meant, Manolito started shaking his head violently. _No!_

~HC~

 _High Chaparral Ranch,  
Arizona Territory, United States of America_  
 _Mid to late May, 1878_

"Please, Mrs. Cannon, call me Francine."

"And me, Victoria, please," she replied. The women were seated together on the sofa in the living room with Victoria pouring the woman a cup of coffee from her silver service. "Sugar, Francine? Milk?"

"Black is good, thank you, Victoria." The woman accepted the cup and then waited until Victoria was ready so they both took their first sip together. "This is very good. It was a long and dusty ride from Tucson, so thank you for making me so welcome."

Victoria shook her head. "In my country, we have a saying: Mi casa es su casa. Literally, it translates as 'My house is your house,' but it really means that you are quite welcome in our home."

Francine smiled in appreciation. "I feel as if I'm repeating myself but I also want to say thank you for inviting Joe and me to get married here at the ranch. You've already done so much for us with the house. I glanced at it as we pulled up and was so excited to not only see that it is even lovelier than I imagined but to also find that it's almost done."

"Francine, we appreciate all that Joe has done for us and the High Chaparral over the years, so we're very happy to find that we can do something to help the two of you. The Bunkhouse Boys have been spending their evenings helping Chun Li work on the house to get it finished quicker, and I think they're as happy about helping as we are. We can go out and take a closer look in a little. I'm sure you'll want to decorate it."

Francine nodded. "Oh, yes. Victoria, I'm a seamstress by trade, so I'm really looking forward to making curtains and throws and blankets. Well, everything!"

Victoria smiled, seeing the excitement in her new friend's face as well as hearing it in her voice. "It will all be lovely when you're done."

"I have some fabric picked out at the store for some curtains, but Joe said we didn't have time right then. With his brother on leave, he had to get back here to check on things. He said that Pedro and Roy will be taking us back to Tucson tomorrow, so I'll take care of all of that before our move next week. Speaking of tomorrow, I really appreciate you letting me use your guest room tonight."

Victoria nodded in reply as she hid her grin behind her cup. Mano's room would actually be serving as the guest room for the night since he'd drawn a shorter straw than Buck. Her little brother would be sleeping in the bunkhouse, as would Francine's sons. The young boys had been quite excited at the prospect when they were told.

"What do you make besides curtains, Francine? Do you make dresses? Or perhaps, children's clothes?"

The woman nodded. "I make my own dresses, but mostly, I make clothes for the boys and work shirts for a couple of stores in Tucson. I can make six shirts on a good day."

Victoria's eyes grew wide. "Six? My stitching is very good, but I could never sew anything at close to that speed."

Francine smiled. "Victoria, let me let you in on a little secret. Neither could I. Fortunately, I purchased one of those new mechanical sewing machines a couple of years ago, shortly before my husband was killed. It's truly a modern miracle. I cut out the pieces in the evening, get them set up and pinned early in the morning, and then sew in the late morning and afternoon when there's plenty of sunlight. It's too easy to make mistakes doing it by lamplight in the evening. Believe me, I didn't have to rip out too many seams before I learned that."

Victoria shared a laugh at that and then refreshed their cups. "So, Francine, tell me about your wedding. I want to help out however I can."

"Thank you, Victoria. I've told Joe that I just want a simple little wedding where his friends can attend and be there to share the day with us. You're doing so much to help us, I'd also like you to be my matron of honor and stand with me, if that's okay?"

"Oh, Francine, I would be honored! Please, tell me what you have planned and then we'll go out and look at your new home."

~HC~

 _Tucson, Arizona Territory  
Thursday, May 30, 1878_

It was early in the morning and Rally McNabb was in the general store picking up a few items before he and his partner left town. Unfortunately, there appeared to be an order in front of him. The storekeeper was checking items off a list as the clerk made his way around the store finding the items. Tall, thin, and clean-shaven, Rally wasn't a patient man under the best of circumstances, so his scowl about having to wait for the unseen customer was rather obvious and quite pronounced.

The storekeeper was quite observant, as storekeepers tend to be, so he said, "Sir, I'll be with you in just a minute or two. We have to make sure everything's on this list. We don't want to mess up Mrs. Francine's wedding by missing something."

The lanky man nodded in reply, but something about that name triggered a memory. "'Scuse me. Would that be Francine Grimes? My friend Jimmy Grimes was married to a Francine. I heard he died over in Prescott a couple of years ago, but when I went looking for his for wife to offer my sympathies, she'd already moved."

"Well, you know what?" said the owner. "I'd forgotten it but I think she was a Grimes when she first moved to town about that time. She changed back to her maiden name, Crenshaw, shortly after moving here. She makes work shirts for our store. Great shirts. Real good quality. I can show you—"

"No thanks, not in the market. She live 'round here?"

"Yeah, a couple streets over to the west. But she won't be there long. She's moving today to get married this weekend. That's why we're getting all this stuff together for her for the wedding and her new house."

"Getting'' remarried? Well good for her! Where's she movin'?"

"Out at the High Chaparral ranch, southeast of town a ways." The shopkeeper checked the last item off of the list, and told the clerk to box them up. "Mrs. Francine's supposed to be by here in just a little while so we can put all this stuff in her wagon. Can I tell her you were inquiring about her?"

"Uh, no thanks. She probably wouldn't remember me anyways." Putting his items on the counter, Rally asked, "What's my total? Oh, I forgot. Add a couple boxes of cartridges, .45s."

"Umm, let's see." The man did some addition in his head before saying, "That'll be three dollars and two bits."

Rally gave the storekeeper the money for his purchase, picked up his goods, and exited the store to the shopkeeper's call of "Thank ya' kindly." He didn't bother with a reply; he was already thinking of something else, something important.

It didn't take him long to walk down the street from the general store to the hotel, but his mind was churning for the entire trip. By the time he entered, he had a rough plan already worked out. Seeing his friend seated in the lobby reading a copy of the _Citize_ n, he went over and sat down. Whispering, he said, "Hank, you'll never guess who I found!"

The short-bearded man looked over the top of the paper. "Who?"

"Jimmy Grimes' wife! He wouldn't tell us where he hid it, but, if we act fast, we might still be able to get our share of that haul after all."

~HC~

It was late that afternoon and Joe Butler was driving hard toward the High Chaparral. He'd brought the wagon with a team of six horses from the ranch the day before. With such a team, they would be able to make the entire trip with the heavily loaded wagon in one day. Francine Crenshaw sat on the bench next to him with her dark brown hair covered by a bonnet. She was smiling almost as much as Joe.

Her sons, Josh and Jase, ages 9 and 7, were sitting in the back of the wagon, and Pedro Carr was following along behind, on the lookout for anyone trying to sneak up behind them, while making jokes with the boys.

A third man, Chris, the piano player for the wedding, was also riding along behind them. Chris said little, spending most of his time trying to adjust his position in his saddle to find a more comfortable spot, all the while wishing he hadn't agreed to make the trip in the first place.

With the Apaches on the San Carlos reservation, the group wasn't expecting trouble, but Joe and Pedro knew it usually paid to be on the alert for the unexpected. They were looking around constantly, trying to make sure that it didn't catch up with them. However, when trouble finally came, it was from straight ahead.

A Saguaro cactus had fallen across the rough road at a difficult point, blocking the way. Seeing it, Joe brought the team to a stop. "Well, doesn't that beat all of the luck. A cactus falls across the road at the one point where we can't go around due to the rocks and can't really back up due to the rocks, the bend, and the fact that we have a team of six horses." His hand was on the Winchester, ready, in case there was more to it than it seemed.

"I'm sorry, Joe. I seem to be making lots of trouble for you," said Francine, thinking how they'd had to repack part of the wagon at the general store to fit all of her packages. "What can we do?"

"It's not your fault, honey. It just takes a little longer than planned." He looked around, finally concluding that it was safe as Pedro came riding up beside the wagon.

"¿ _Qué pasa_ , Joe?" asked Pedro. "What's happening?"

"Bad luck," replied Joe, as he climbed down. "Road's blocked at probably the worst point on the whole trip."

Pedro laughed. "Yeah, 'cept for the fifty other spots almost exactly like this."

Joe joined him in the laugh as he got an ax from its spot under the side of the wagon. "You're probably right, Pedro. Get the front team of horses and some rope. I'll chop it in half and then we'll have to pull it off to the side."

"Gotcha, boss."

Joe walked forward and was almost to the fallen cactus when he realized something wasn't right. The cactus hadn't fallen due to old age or disease; it had been cut. He was reaching for his Colt when a man with a bandana over his face stepped from behind a rock. The man had a Henry rifle pointed straight at him.

Just starting to unhook the front team, Pedro saw the other man at about the same time.

"Both of you better toss them pieces if you don't want us to cut ya' down. We don't have anything against either of ya', but we'll blast away if that's what it takes."

Francine came running up about that time. "Joe? What's going on?" She came to an abrupt stop when she saw the bandits.

"Mrs. Francine!" called the tall, thin bandit. "What's goin' on is that we 've come to get what belongs to us. Your husband—the late one, not this one—stole some stuff from us and we want it back. Give it to us, and we'll leave you alone and be on our way."

She put her hands on her hips and said, rather forcefully, "You lie! My late husband never stole anything from anyone."

Both of the bandits broke out laughing. The thinner one said, "Your husband would steal anything that wasn't nailed down, and he'd steal that, too, if he could pry up the board it was nailed to! Why do you think he was always taking all of his 'trips?' He told us about some of his explanations that he gave you." They both laughed again.

She had tears in her eyes as she realized that they might be telling the truth. She was shaking her head vehemently as the stockier man growled, "Now, we want that pouch he brought home the night before he died. Give it to us and we'll be outta here."

Francine shook her head again, furiously. "But he didn't bring home anything like that!"

The argument continued for a couple more minutes when the heavier bandit finally said, "Listen, lady, we're givin' ya' one more chance. Give it to us, or you'll be sorry."

She was crying. "But I don't have anything like that!"

The lankier bandit waved his Winchester at Joe. "You better start chopping, buddy. And you, amigo," he said to Pedro, "get that team ready just like you guys said. We got to get this road cleared. And don't try anything. If you do, you'll get it first and then it will be the lady's turn."

With the rifles trained on them and the threat to Francine, they didn't have a choice. Joe started chopping while Pedro pushed a rope under the cactus on one side of the cut. It wasn't long before one side was out of the way on one side of the road, and then the other was soon dragged around to the other side. Pedro had the team hooked back up soon thereafter in accordance with the bandits' orders.

A horse's whinny triggered the events that followed. Chris, the piano player, had ridden up alongside the wagon to see what was happening, but he'd maneuvered his horse too close and the horse cried out. The bandit with the Henry swung his rifle toward the player and fired. The bullet came nowhere close, but that didn't matter. The horse, with Chris hanging on for dear life, was on its way back toward Tucson as fast as it could go.

Joe brought up the ax to swing toward the Henry bandit, but Winchester, behind him, was too fast. He fired a shot that hit Joe in the back of the leg some inches above his left knee. Joe crumpled to the side in pain as the ax went flying.

Pedro had been waiting for the right time, so when it came, he was ready. He launched himself at Winchester, who seemed occupied with Joe. However, the man was fast, swinging the barrel around and connecting with Pedro's head. He, too, fell to the ground, moaning, clutching his head as blood streamed down his forehead into his eye. Francine was running back to the wagon to grab Joe's Winchester, but the Henry man knocked her down and climbed up. He popped the reins and the horses started forward. The Winchester man jumped up, too, just as the wagon began to roll forward.

Still on the ground, Francine screamed as the wagon passed her when she saw her sons were still in the back. She jumped up and chased after, calling for her boys to jump down.

Seconds later, everyone was gathered around Joe, who was trying to tie off his leg to stop the bleeding.

"Joe! You're bleeding so badly," cried Francine as she fell to her knees beside him. She reached under her dress and ripped out past of the lining. She quickly folded it up and pressed it down into the wound, trying to stop the flow.

"Didn't get an artery," he said arduously, as he struggled to keep up the pressure to get the wound to stop bleeding. "Still, it hurts like hell—oh, sorry, boys—and if we can't get it to stop—"

"Don't talk like that," Francine interjected. "And I'm not talking about saying a damn, stupid curse word, either! We've got to stop it, Joe Butler!"

Pedro had succeeded in tying his bandana around his head but the blood was saturating it and dripping in little corselets down his forehead. He had his left eye squeezed tight and both hands were pushed down on the cut on his scalp. On looking around with his open eye, he said to the older boy, "Josh, get my horse, Poncho. Bring him here, _por favor_."

The boy had been fighting off the tears that had overcome his little brother, so he jumped up and went over to the horse, where Pedro had tied him. He approached carefully, and, soothing the beast, untied him and brought him over to his owner.

"Get the canteen and give it to your mamá, son," instructed Pedro. Turning to the younger boy, he said, "Jase, find my pistola. It's over there on the side, somewhere. When you find it, pick it up by the grip and don't put your finger on the trigger. Don't point it at anyone and bring it to me."

The young boy was still sniffling, but having such an important job assigned to him helped him overcome the flowing tears. He went searching.

"We've slowed the bleeding, Pedro," called Francine, "but I think Joe's getting lightheaded. We've got to get help, quick. Joe can't ride."

"Found it, Mr. Pedro!" called young Jase.

"Take your time, son. Walk carefully and don't fall down." He reached out and took the Colt out of the boy's hand a second later. "It's Joe's but it will do. Boys, help me up on Poncho."

With Pedro still trying to stanch the blood flow from his scalp with one hand, he had a bit of trouble, but he was soon on his horse. Pulling his rifle out of his sheath, he handed it down to Josh. "Hang onto that for your mamá. I'm going to get help and will be back pronto."

A moment later, Pedro was riding hard toward the High Chaparral.

~HC~

It was almost three hours later when Francine heard thundering hooves. Two big men led the way and they were down from their horses in moments. She recognized one, sporting just-fading bruises on his face, as Joe's brother Sam. The other man was even bigger. The way he issued orders, she quickly realized that this must be Big John Cannon himself.

"How is he?" demanded Sam as he knelt down beside them.

"He's been out for a while," replied Francine. "We got the bleeding stopped, but it's so hot and we only had a little water."

"Water!" called John. "Here, and for the boys. Quickly. Give her some first." Looking at Francine, he asserted, "You haven't had a sip since Pedro left."

"I had to save what we had for Joe and the boys," she agreed. Surprise grew in her eyes as she saw Victoria dismount from a big gray stallion and come running forward with her makeshift but well stocked medical bag. "Oh, Victoria! You came, too!"

Victoria forced a smile. "How is he, Francine?"

Francine gave her a concise but thorough report.

John stepped over and spoke with some of the Bunkhouse Boys. A moment later, he called, "Victoria, the buckboard should be here shortly."

"Good. We need to get him back to the ranch before we remove the bullet. It needs to come out quickly, but if we do it here, he may bleed to death before we can get him home."

"Right," agreed John. "And it's way too far to take him to Tucson. Look, here it comes now. Sam, get him on it and then get him back to the ranch. It's going to be dark soon and we don't need to be out here driving on this rough road in the dark."

"Got it, Mr. Cannon." Looking to the other hands, he said, "Here, give me some help lifting him."

While they were loading Joe on the buckboard, John stepped over to speak with Wind.

"Son, this is asking a lot, but I want you to take some of the boys with you to track that wagon. They won't be able to get too far with it very quickly and, with all of the trouble they apparently went through to get it, they won't want to give it up."

"Mr. Cannon, I was planning to track it anyway, but this is something I need to do alone. I like all of the guys, but they aren't exactly highly skilled at, oh, what's that word? Stealth."

John smiled and gave a nod. "Good point, Wind. Okay, whatever you do, don't try to take them on by yourself. That's an order. We'll have a group back out here just after daybreak in the morning, so leave a clearly marked trail for us. We'll take them together."

"Yes, Mr. Cannon," replied Wind. "I'll make sure you'll be able to find us."

~HC~

It was the middle of the night with the start of a new moon. The sky was filled with stars, but there were some uncharacteristic clouds drifting by, hiding some of the distant lights for brief periods before seemingly allowing them to be reborn once more.

Crouched low, Wind topped the rise to see a small fire down in the little swale between some low hills. There were also two men holding torches as they appeared to ransack boxes, crates, or bags in the back of the wagon and then toss them out when they were done. With what little light was available, it appeared to Wind that clothing and household goods had been scattered all around, with more being tossed out every few moments.

The young man listened carefully, but he couldn't make out much beside frequent curses, so he lowered himself down on his stomach and then slowly scooted forward. Keeping most of his weight on his hands and his toes, he made no noise as he closed the distance.

"—knew it, Hank, we shoulda' kept Francine with us. We'd have already gotten the stash by now and been on our way."

"Rally, shut up. I'm telling ya' that it's got to be here, and I ain't killing no woman to get it."

"Come on, Hank, I didn't say anything about killin' her. We coulda' roughed her up a little, maybe threatened to—well, you know— and she'd told us right where to find it." Rally paused for a minute as he dragged another bag out. "Well, look at this! Looks like a weddin' dress. She caused us enough trouble so here's some payback!"

Sweeping the dress back and forth on the ground a couple of times, he seemed to figure that it was dirty enough, so he was about to toss it when Wind heard him exclaim, "Wait just a second!"

He held up the dress and then touched the bottom of it with his torch. The flames shot upward and he had to toss the burning garment just a moment later. He laughed but then had to yawn. "Hank, I'm tired and it's dark, so let's get some rest and then go through it all come morning. Even if we can't find the bag with that payroll, we can go through this other stuff and take anything worthwhile."

Hank was yawning, too. "Yeah, sounds good. Let's put out this fire and these torches, and then I'll flip you for first guard duty."

Rally cursed loudly on losing and having to take the first shift.

~HC~

It was around 8 AM the next morning when John, Buck, Mano, Reno, Roy, and Chuck saw smoke about a couple hundred yards ahead in a copse of scrub trees. They tied off their horses and advanced slowly. They'd made it about two thirds of the way when a very low voice above them said, "I advise quiet, Mr. Cannon. Indians would have heard you coming a mile away; the two we're seeking aren't Indians, but they may not be deaf either."

John Cannon looked up to see Wind sitting in one of the trees. Motioning for him to come down, John whispered, "Wind, what's the situation?"

"Just the two of them, sir. They woke up a little while ago and restarted their fire. The thinner one's back in the wagon looking for something while cursing up a storm. The other one, the bearded guy, is cooking breakfast. Their camp looks like this." Wind quickly drew a diagram on the ground.

John looked at it and then said, "Here's what we're going to do…"

~HC~

It was late afternoon on Friday, May 31, 1878, when Joe opened his eyes. He was in a strange bed and he was quite groggy. There was someone next to him but it took a moment for his eyes to focus.

"Joe! You're awake!" exclaimed Francine.

"Mmm, Francine, you're okay," he replied unsteadily. "Thank goodness."

"How do you feel, dear?" she asked, wiping his forehead with a cool cloth.

"Uhm, not great but probably better than I should be considering I got shot."

"Yeah, little brother, you got shot, alright," said Sam Butler, who been with him almost the entire time. Sitting at the foot of the bed, he put his hand on Joe's other leg and gave it a little squeeze. "We were really worried about you, Joe. You lost a lot of blood."

"Believe me, I was worried, too. I remember bouncing on the buckboard for a bit..."

"Yeah, it wasn't long before you passed out. Mrs. Cannon and Francine got that bullet out of your leg last night after we got you back to the ranch. Mrs. Cannon gave you some laudanum earlier to help with the pain and to help you rest, but she said you probably wouldn't even remember that part."

Joe's eyelids were heavy as he said, "Nope, not a thing." Moments later, he was a sleep again.

Shouting outside the house caused Sam to rise. "Francine, I'll go check and be back with you soon."

She gave her fiancé's brother a weak smile as she nodded.

Sam stepped out the front door of the Cannon home to see a wagon and several riders approaching. Big John Cannon, flanked by Buck and Mano, was leading the way.

"What happened, Mr. Cannon?" asked Sam as the Reno brought the wagon to a stop and the rest of the men dismounted. That was when he saw the body of rather stout, bearded man tied over the saddle of one of the horses.

"We surprised them but they didn't give up easily," replied John. Motioning to the body, he added, "This one didn't make it, but the other one got away. We recovered the wagon, the horses, and all of the household goods we could. They weren't very careful in searching for the bag Pedro mentioned, so there was a lot of damage. How's Joe?"

Sam filled him in as they headed into the house.

~HC~

Joe Butler slept through most of the Saturday morning of what had originally been planned to be his wedding day. Everyone knew he'd be in no shape to go through with it, but when he finally awoke, he was quite insistent that he was going to get married anyway. At a whisper, he told his brother, "Sam, I want to go on and get this over before Francine comes to her senses and changes her mind."

Sam laughed. "Unless she just goes crazy from exhaustion, I don't see that happening; however, I don't see you getting out of that bed today either. Mrs. Cannon said you're to stay right there."

"Is she our momma?"

"No, but—"

"Did the pastor make it?"

"Yeah, he got here a little while ago, but Francine's going to talk to him about rescheduling."

"Uh-uh. Sam, I'm not keeping him, Francine, and everyone else waiting. Go get my clothes. I've got to get to a wedding."

~HC~

Over multiple objections, Sam Butler helped his little brother down the stairs. Using a pair of crutches that Pedro had fashioned, Joe was soon hobbling out the front door and heading toward Victoria's flower garden.

While the original plans for the wedding hadn't been very complicated, most of them had been changed since Francine and Victoria had spent most of that Friday taking care of the groom. However, since he slept much of that day, Francine had reworked a dress that Victoria had been kind enough to give her to serve as a wedding dress since her original wedding dress had been destroyed and most of her other clothes were dirty or damaged.

Though they weren't sure the wedding would actually take place, Violeta and Ming-huá had spent much of Friday preparing food for a luncheon and baking a big cake that could, relatively quickly, be decorated as a wedding cake. On hearing that Joe was up, Violeta whipped up some icing and Ming-huá made some paper cutouts as a topping decoration. She also slipped out to the garden to gather some flowers for a wedding bouquet; by holding the wedding in front of the flower garden, they had decided that no other decorations were needed.

The Bunkhouse Boys who were off duty quickly moved Victoria's piano outside and then set up chairs for the guests. Most of them slipped off after that, but they returned a short time later. They'd cleaned up, combed their hair, and changed into fresh clothes.

It was almost 1 o'clock, the planned time for the wedding, when Victoria discovered a problem with their plans. The piano player hadn't come back with the minister and the guests from Tucson. "Oh, Francine. I'm so sorry. We'd planned for music, but we don't have a piano player. I'll be happy to do it, but—"

Francine smiled and shook her head. "No, Victoria. This supposed to be a simple little wedding for Joe, me, the boys, and our friends. With all that's happened and all you've done to make this possible, I'd much rather have you standing with me rather than playing."

Victoria smiled at her friend and helped make final adjustments to the dress and her hair. A few minutes later, a knock on the door was followed by John's voice. "Victoria, it's time."

Francine took John's offered arm as they went down the stairs and headed out to the garden.

They were almost there when Victoria saw her brother. Catching his attention, she waved and mouthed, "Manolito! _Ven aqui!_ Come here!"

He looked at her questioningly but quickly complied when her brow furrowed at him. When he neared her, she launched into rapid-fire Spanish that John couldn't even follow and which left Francine totally bewildered.

Mano said "No!" a number of times and shook his head repeatedly, but, finally, his head dropped and he walked over to have a seat at the piano. He stretched very rusty fingers before, very tentatively, he started to play something that sounded somewhat vaguely like a wedding march.

Victoria was smiling but trying to keep from cringing as Mano's fingers repeatedly missed their intended targets, either accidentally or unknowingly. She walked down the aisle, leading the way for the bride, who had a big smile of her own as she listened to sweet music play while looking at her intended at the front of the assembly. Moments later, she took her place next to him with Victoria and Sam flanking them.

The crack of Manolito's fingers after the so-called music ended brought a laugh from everyone, including the bride and groom.

Standing in front of Joe and Francine, the balding pastor looked at them and then at all of those present. After clearing his throat, he proclaimed, "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the presence of God and these witnesses, to join this man, Joseph Alan Butler with this woman, Francine Sheppard Crenshaw, in the bonds of holy matrimony..."

Though he was standing on crutches and his leg was really hurting, Joe Butler looked at his beautiful bride and gave the biggest smile of all.

~HC~

 ** _Author's Note:_** _This story was originally supposed to get the full "Brady Bunch wedding" treatment, but the "funnier" it got, the less I laughed. I hope you've enjoyed the final product._

 _I apologize that this story has been delayed for several weeks. Real life just got in the way. Knowing how that is, I really appreciate everyone who's taking the time to read this story, and especially appreciate those who are going the extra step to provide feedback in the way of comments, reviews, follows, and favorites. Your words of encouragement make all of the effort worthwhile. Thank you all, including RedButterfly33, Junebug, wotwasithinkin, and Whitney for the reviews on Part 3.  
_

 _Finally, don't worry, we haven't seen the last of Rally McNabb…_


	5. Shot 5: The Bequeathment

**Shot #5: The Bequeathment  
** By VStarTraveler

 ** _Summary:_** _In Shot #5: The Bequeathment, Buck gets a shot at riches, and the problems they sometimes entail, when he receives a letter from a lawyer informing him of an inheritance. Western/Adventure. One-shot.  
_

* * *

 _Globe, Arizona Territory  
Mid-June, 1878_

The stairwell up to the attic that doubled as the boarding room in Mrs. Kimbrell's Boarding House was quite narrow and the steps themselves were quite tall for ten year old Sally Kimbrell. Having fallen on the steps a couple of times in her youth, she was being very careful as she lifted her foot high on each step and then put it down carefully on the shallow stair tread.

As she neared the top step, her excitement was building; since it wasn't wash day, today's cleaning wouldn't take too long. She had to make the beds, sweep, dust, and do any tidying needed, but after that, she could go outside and play with her friends.

On reaching the attic room, she sighed lightly, and then made sure the gable window was open. The heat was already building up in the room, which would soon be too hot to occupy. Looking to the gable on the other end, she saw that window was open, too. She sighed again, disappointed, since that meant that there probably wouldn't be any more airflow through the room than it already had. Sally knew she would have to finish her work quickly or she would soon be drenched in sweat.

There were twelve beds with a partial divider near the center of the room, separating them into six and six. She always did her work to the divider and then did the other side to make it easier to keep track of her progress.

The first side went quickly since only three of the beds had been occupied overnight, but when she got to the other side, she sighed loudly, for effect this time, since five of the six beds had been used and the bedding on the one on the end on the left looked really jumbled.

It was when she was about to start making that last bed when she realized something was wrong. Running to the top of the stairs at the other end of the room, she shouted down, "Mama! Maa-maa! Come quick! We've got a problem!"

~HC~

 _Tucson  
Late June, 1878_

It was hot.

As he walked down the street to the post office shortly after noon, Buck Cannon wiped the sweat from his brow for what seemed to be the twentieth time that day. He suspected that it was actually closer to the thirtieth. That wasn't unusual, though. Summer in Arizona was always hot.

Entering the post office, he saw the postmaster behind the counter sorting letters. There were only a few in his hand, so Buck waited patiently, looking at the building, which was still almost like new. It was much roomier than the small space in the general store where it had once been housed. Glancing back, he saw the postman finish, only to see him pick up more letters and keep going.

"Ex-scuse me. Mornin', Jack. Got any mail for High Chaparral?"

"Oh! Hi, Buck. Didn't hear you come in. Yeah, there's some mail for the ranch and, ya' know, I believe there may be one here for you."

"Me?"

"Yep, thought so. Here it is." The postman handed him the stack with a letter addressed to "Mister Buck Cannon" sitting on top.

Buck shook his head. "What is this, Jack? If looks too oh-ficial to be for me."

The postmaster laughed. "Yeah, it does look that, doesn't it. Let's see, it's marked from Globe. That place is growing like a weed with all the silver mines up there. I heard they even got themselves a newspaper that started up just last month. Hmm, says it's from an esquire."

"Esquire, like in lawyer? Hmm. From Globe City? You don't say. I passed through there a couple of years ago and it wasn't much to sneeze at, mostly a few buildings on the main street and tents all around." He opened the letter and read it slowly. As he neared the bottom, he was slowly shaking his head.

"What is it, Buck? What's wrong?"

"I don't know, Jack. If I'm understandin' this right, somebody up there in Globe has left me a be-queath-ment. Doesn't that mean like an inheritance?"

"Yeah, I think you're right abou—"

The door jingled as it opened for two more local cowhands coming in for mail. Jack smiled and said, "Hi, Ernie, Rico. Guess what? Old Buck, here's gett'n an inheritance. He's gonna' be rich!"

The herders smiled. "Congrats, Buck! That's great news. You got to buy us a drink!"

A few minutes later, a small crowd followed Buck into the saloon.

"Buck's gonna be rich! He's buying us all a drink!" exclaimed one of the men Buck didn't even know.

"Uh, wait a minute now—"

Before he could even finish his objection, someone else interrupted. "Three cheers for Buck! Hip, hooray! Hip hooray! Hip hooray!"

"Yeah, Buck, where'd ya' get the money?"

"How much ya' gettin'?"

Buck shook his head, uncomfortable with all of the attention and with the rising tab that he'd never really agreed to pay. He waved to Mike the bartender trying to cut off the bottle, but Mike didn't see and kept pouring drinks for those gathered around.

"Well, I don't have it just yet. This esquire—that's one of them lawyer types—named Oestermann wants me to come up to Globe City to get it. I got to go up there to find out all the dee-tails."

~HC~

At a table in the back corner of the bar, a man of medium height and build, sitting back in the chair with his hat pulled low over his face, had been gently rubbing a week's worth of stubble. He needed a shave but had no razor and couldn't afford the two bits the barber would want for the job. Money had been tight since he'd been fired from his last job a couple of weeks before. With no real prospects for suitable work, Jerry Donovan knew he was going to have to take the next job that came along, however distasteful, unless he could come into some easier money. And come into it soon.

Luck smiled on him as he heard the discussion about the Buck guy coming into money and buying free drinks. Listening to the noise, Donovan gently grasped the peak of his hat and shifted it a little higher so he could look under the brim. Watching the group crowded around the bar, he rose and went forward to get his free drink, but he didn't go over to congratulate the newly made man as some of the others were doing. Downing the shot, he moved to the end of the bar and waited until things settled down and the newly rich man scrounged up enough to pay Mike and slip out of the bar.

With the drink having stoked his thirst, he wanted more so he reached in his pocket to feel his last few coins. Thirst overcame frugality and the need for the shave, so a curl of his index finger got Mike the Bartender's attention. Shoving the glass forward, he said, "Whiskey. Say, who's the goat with the money?"

Mike laughed and then poured as he replied. "You mean Buck? That's Buck Cannon."

"Cannon? Haven't I heard that name somewhere?"

"Probably. He and another guy own a little ranch a little way out of town, but his big brother owns a much bigger spread southeast of that. It's called the High Chaparral."

"Yeah, that must be it. Say, must be nice to come into some money."

Mike picked up the coins for the drink and then nodded as he wiped the counter. "Probably, but I wouldn't know. Never happened to me."

They laughed together briefly, but as Mike moved down the bar to another customer, Jerry Donovan wondered what it would take for him to come into the money that Cannon guy was supposed to get. He'd stolen things from time to time, but always on the sly, and had never had to worry about facing his victim, or, in truth, getting caught. He sat on the stool, staring at the glass for a little while. He thought carefully about what he'd heard, all the while balancing the little money he himself had left. When he finally stood up, he'd reached a decision. With his six gun at his side, perhaps coming into that money wouldn't be so hard after all.

~HC~

Late that same evening at the ranch, Buck and Mano sat in the living room with John and Victoria. John was kneeling on the floor on one end of the couch and Victoria was doing the same on the other end. Little Bobby and Betsy were taking very tentative, but improving, steps between them, throwing themselves into their parents' waiting arms at the end of each little circuit. This led to a lot of laughter on the part of the children, their parents, and their uncles.

"They're going to be walking to Tucson soon, Victoria," said Mano. "You'll be chasing them down all over the country."

Victoria frowned at her brother, thinking that her perfect angels would _never_ do such a thing.

"So, Buck, when are you going to Globe to get your bequest?"

"Well, John, see'ns how we're not too busy right now—"

John frowned, wondering what schedule Buck had been looking at to think that.

"—I just thought I'd take off in the morning. It's a good two-day ride up there, and two days back, plus a day to take care of the business, so that puts me back here on Sunday night. That way, I can help move the herd to the south pastures on Monday like you was sayin' earlier."

Despite his planned objection, his brother's plan held some logic, so John slowly nodded. "Now, Buck, don't get up there to Globe City, drink away your whole inheritance, and take several more days to sober up and come back."

"John! You wound me, big brother!"

"No, Buck, I just know you too well."

~HC~

Buck arrived at the hotel in Globe, popularly known as Globe City, late on Thursday evening.

Dismounting from Rebel, he led his horse into the Chester's Livery Stable and Corral and called out, "Hallo? Anybody round?"

A head popped up from the loft. Suppressing a yawn, a boy of perhaps 11 or 12 called down, "Hello, mister. You want to board your horse?"

"That'd be the intent," replied Buck, leading the boy to pull on his boots and climb down.

Fighting off another yawn, the boy said, "$0.50 a day in a stall, food and water included. In advance."

"Sure thing, kid. You work here, I take it?"

The boy cocked his head. "It's Ronnie. Ronnie Flye. And no, mister, I sleep in the loft so people can wake me up for fun when they drop their horses off. Seriously, do you want me to brush him down?"

They worked out the details for the stay including Buck's name and Rebel's rations, and then Buck paid the kid. "Take care of ole' Rebel, here, and then get some sleep kid." He added a nice tip at the end.

That brought a smile to the kid's face. "Thanks, Mr. Buck. I will!"

~HC~

The nearest hotel was across the street and just a little way down from the livery stable, so he headed that way. After hauling his saddle bags, blanket, and rifle upstairs, he went back downstairs to the saloon off from the hotel lobby. He didn't recognize anyone and he was quite tired after the long ride, so he didn't socialize, choosing instead to take a seat at a small back table for dinner and a couple of shots of red-eye. He went upstairs and hit the bed a short time later.

It was mid morning on Friday when he opened the door next to the shingle that read _Z. Oestermann, Esquire_. A little bell on the door tinkled to announce his arrival.

"Hallo? Anybody 'round?"

"Yes, hello. Please have a seat," called a voice from the next room. "Be with you in just a moment."

Buck wasn't interested in sitting. He was busy looking at several framed certificates on the wall when a man entered behind him.

"Those are my credentials, sir. I am Zebadiah Oestermann, Esquire, at your service. How may I assist you?" To Buck's ear, the rapid speech and clipped accent sounded as if it was from somewhere in the northeast. Boston, perhaps?

He turned to see a short-but-thin, balding man with small, round eyeglasses worn low on his nose and a wooden cane in his right hand. The man's hazel-colored eyes were observing Buck carefully over the top of the spectacles. He wore a long-sleeve white shirt with the sleeves turned up, and his gray, western-style bowtie matched the color of his trousers and suspenders. From what Buck could tell, the man appeared to be in his 50s.

The lawyer was looking at him impatiently. Mr. Oestermann didn't appear to be one for small talk as he continued, "Just so you know, most criminal cases cost $10. Hanging offenses run 20, plus any expenses. All such fees are cash, in advance, of course."

Buck stood looking at the man for a few moments. "Ah..."

"Out with it, sir. I can't defend you properly if you're not forthcoming."

"Uh...sorry, I'm not here for that."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I assumed..." The attorney was clearly surprised. "Then civil cases vary, with most starting at $5. If you tell me about your case, I can give you a more exact cost."

Buck was quite uncomfortable with the fast-talking lawyer, so he reached in his pocket and pulled out the letter. "My name is Buck Cannon. You sent me this."

"Oh. Mr. Cannon. Of course. The Burwell will. A most interesting case. Please, come into my office and have a seat."

Once they were seated and had coffee, Zebadiah Oestermann picked up a few papers from a vertical file on his desk. He reviewed them for a few moments and then looked back at Buck.

"First, sir, I'm very sorry about Mr. Burwell's passing. It was, after all, rather sudden and apparently completely unexpected, at least to those he encountered here in Globe. He showed up in town on Thursday, took a room at the Kimbrell boarding house and went straight to bed without bothering to eat dinner. He was found dead in his bed the next morning. The man didn't say much at all and nobody knew anything about him. The marshal searched his belongings and found this scrawled letter in his bag, which was fortunate, for no one in town knew who he was from Adam. We were lucky to be able to locate you, but we couldn't hold off your friend's funeral until after your arrival."

Buck shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Oh-stermann, but I can't say he was my friend. I've been thinking 'bout it for three days straight since I got your letter and I can't even say that I even know who Mr. Burwell was."

~HC~

Standing in the shadow cast by the balcony above, Jerry Donovan was still fretting over having to make the long trip from Tucson. Not wanting to be spotted on the trail, he'd left that afternoon after learning of the inheritance so he could get to Globe before that Buck Cannon fellow arrived. Donovan spotted him as soon as he'd ridden into Globe the night before, and had been on the lookout all morning since seeing him walk from the hotel to the lawyer's office.

"What could be taking so long?" he said to himself. "Just give him the damn money so he can walk out and give it to me."

It was close to noon when the door finally opened and the Cannon guy stepped out, turned, and shook hands with the office type who Donovan figured must be the lawyer.

Jerry Donovan observed the dark-clad man carefully. He wasn't carrying a bag, so whatever money was involved was either in a pocket or, possibly, in the form of a bank draft. The observer clutched his fists, hoping to see Cannon turn toward the bank to cash the draft, but, instead, he watched the man wipe his brow and then reach into his pocket to pull out his watch to check the time. Cannon seemed unsure about something as he briefly stared at the time before finally closing the watch and returning it to his pocket. He then turned to head back down the street toward the hotel.

Donovan cursed under his breath. Now he would probably have to keep an eye on the man for the rest of the day in case he decided to slip off to the bank later in the afternoon and then have to watch to make sure he didn't leave town. Frustrated, he huffed. Waiting until he saw Cannon enter the saloon next to the hotel, Donovan then turned that way himself.

~HC~

It was early Saturday morning and the sun was just coming up when Buck checked out of the hotel and made his way toward the livery stable carrying his gear. Between wins and losses, he'd come out two-fifty ahead in poker games on Friday afternoon, which paid for dinner and a bottle.

He glanced at his watch: 5:15 AM. With the long summer day and a little luck, he'd be able to get as far as the Mammoth Mine before dark, or maybe even the settlement some miles south of that.

The night lantern still burned in the center of the livery stable when he stepped in the door. Buck was about to call out when he felt something poke into his back. He froze even as a quiet voice said, "Don't move if you want to live through this."

"You got me. I ain't movin."

"Good. Now drop that stuff in your hands, then raise your hands up high, slow-like. Take three steps forward."

With the barrel of the pistol pressed hard against his back, Buck did just as the man said. He'd just stopped moving when he felt his Colt being removed from his holster. He heard his captor breathe a quiet sigh of relief as he tossed the pistol away.

"Now, where's your money? You're gonna give it to me. All of it."

The pistol dug against Buck's backbone as the man spoke. Buck winced, hoping the robber's finger wasn't on the trigger. The tiniest mistake would leave him paralyzed or, more probably, dead.

"In my wallet. In my back pocket."

With the pistol barrel bumping into his back again, fingers fished the wallet out.

At that moment, Buck felt the barrel pull away from him. He was about to chance making a move when his captor once again jabbed the pistol into his back and cried out, "What? Ten dollars? Where's the rest of it?"

"Mister, I'll give it to you, gladly, but that's all I've got."

The man cursed and said, "You hid it in your saddlebags, didn't you? Tell me!"

"Sorry, but I think you've got the wrong person. I've got what's in that wallet and don't even have that now since it's yours."

"Quit lying to me! Where's the money you inherited? I heard them braggin' about it, how you were gonna be rich. Where's the money? Now!"

"Ah, you was in Tucson! That explains it. Well, sorry you came all the way up here cause there wasn't any money, friend. The old codger was flat broke."

"That's not true! It can't be true!"

"Can't be, but I'm 'fraid it is. Believe me, I was pretty disappointed at first, too, comin' all the way up here expecting money, but I shouldn't have been. I didn't even know who the guy was until that esquire fellow Oestermann read Mr. Burwell's will. Here. Mr. Oestermann gave it to me. I'm gonna' reach in my shirt pocket and get it so you can read it yourself."

Moving slowly and using his left hand, Buck reached down to draw the paper from his pocket before handing it back. He felt the paper tugged out of his light grasp and the gunbarrel pressed hard against him once again.

"Step forward. Closer to that lantern."

Buck did, out from under the loft into the more open space in the center of the stable. His captor followed, moving closer to the light. The man shifted slightly to be able to read the letter and as he read, Buck realized that would be the best chance he'd ever have to overcome the man.

The man crumpled the paper and threw it with a loud curse. Buck cursed silently; he was too late. He'd waited too long to make his move.

With the man becoming increasingly irate, Buck realized he'd have to risk it. He steeled himself and was about to make his move when movement above in the left-side loft caught his eye. A log a few inches in diameter and about 3-feet long came spinning through the air from above, hitting the man's arm holding the pistol. Buck spun to his left just before the little timber hit. As it did, the man involuntarily squeezed the trigger, firing a shot that barely missed Buck before hitting the front wall of one of the stalls.

Bringing his left hand down as he finished his spin, Buck grabbed the man's wrist, forcing it down, and brought his right hand around in a powerful hook that connected to the man's jaw even as the club fell to the ground between them.

There was movement in the loft above and then shouting. "Mar-shal! Come quick! Outlaw in Chester's is tryin' to kill Mr. Buck! Marshal!"

With the man reeling back, but sure to recover in seconds, Buck held tight to the man's gun hand as he picked up the club, which he then realized looked like a partially carved baseball bat. With the man shaking off the initial blow and trying to bring the revolver up toward him, it was a short rewind and forward swing against the man's kneecap.

The man cried out in pain and shouted an expletive as he struggled to bring the gun up toward Buck. His thumb caught the hammer and rode it back, readying the single action revolver for its next shot as he fell forward.

With his arm to his side and almost behind him, Buck knew the man, even if falling would soon have a power advantage over him if he could even make a little forward progress with the gun. Therefore, he swung the bat around and down hard, this time shattering the bones in the man's forearm. The gun fell from his grasp, allowing Buck to let go of the broken arm and slam forward into the man, knocking him backward.

The wounded man brought a punch with his left hand, but injured and off balance, it was mostly ineffectual. Buck's move, however, wasn't. He drove his knee forward into the man's groin; one more blow with his fist stopped the man's resistance. He was curled in a fetal position and seemingly whimpering when the marshal arrived seconds later with his pistol drawn, covering them both.

Looking at the man and then at Buck, the marshal asked, "What happened here? What did you do to him, mister?"

"He had the drop on me, marshal, so I did what it took."

~HC~

It took a little while at the marshal's office to get the events of that early morning in the livery stable sorted out. The marshal questioned Buck, the man who called himself Jerry Donovan, and young Ronnie Flye in turn, before taking a visit from Mr. Zebadiah Oestermann, who helped clarify the situation. With Buck's statement matching Ronnie's and the physical evidence, the marshal finally charged Donovan with attempted armed robbery and firing a gun in the city limits while the local doctor was still working on the man's arm. Mr. Oestermann offered his services to the accused before taking his leave.

Buck returned to the stable from the marshal's office to find that young Ronnie had Rebel saddled and Buck's gear already in place. He'd even located Buck's pistol and had it tucked in to the sabble bag.

After checking the Colt and making sure it was okay, Buck led Rebel out front where he stopped and shook the young man's hand. He said, "Ronnie, thank ya' for your help. That Donovan guy had me in a bad situation, so I don't know how much worse it might have turned out if you hadn't been there." He paused for a moment and then continued. "Here. Take this and use it as long as you like. When you're done with it, just make sure you pass it on to somebody else who can make good use of it."

Young Ronnie Flye looked down in his hand and his eyes got big even as his mouth fell open. "Wow! Mr, Buck! Thank you!" When he looked up, he saw Buck Cannon already mounted and riding away.

~HC~

It was a few days later when that same young Ronnie Flye, while cleaning Chester's Livery Stable, noticed something odd. He hadn't seen it before, so he fetched a stool, and, using the post to brace himself, climbed up on top. Looking into the angled space where a timber kneebrace hit the post, he saw a crumpled up paper caught at the bottom of the V. Ronnie reached up and grabbed it before he jumped down from the stool.

Mr. Chester was busy trying to sell a horse to someone, so Ronnie stepped out the back of the stable, where he flattened the paper carefully. There were a few small and very neatly scripted words at the very top and more at the bottom, but his eyes were attracted to the unsteadily written words that covered most of the page:

 _Its cold outside so Im sittin in this cave with a fier to stay warm. I dont know how many mor winters I can take scratchin in the ground fer gold, silver, or whatere elss comes up. So I Claude Burwell, bein of sound mind, make this last will an testimint. I haint got much in this world, but I spect the undertakur an the grave diggur to get paid fer puttin me in the ground if I die in town. Wont matter out in the country since the cyotes will probly get me an Ill end up in the durt anyhow. Sell my Colt, my rifle, my mule, an anything else I might have with me, cept fer below, to payem. Anything that mite be left over aftur that, give to the widdurs an orfins fund at the church to help them a needin._

 _A guy the doc said wuz named Buck Canon from down Tucson way helped me one time a cople years bak in Spokes on Independence Day. Didnt know him befor an haint seen him sinse, but he did it, standin up fer me when I was down an not abel to stand up fer myself. He didn't ask nuttin in return an woodnt spect it now, but I wont be needin my gold watch no more so give it to that Buck fello an mayb he can make use of it. I won it in a poker game in Florence sumtime after I run into Buck. It works well enuff, tho I dont use it much sinse I haint got much use fer time. I trust him with it sinse I know he will do the rite thing an pass it on to sumone else when hees done with it._

 _Gess thats it._

 _Sined,_

 _Claude Burwell,  
Who Buck called Jones  
Febr. 5 18 an 78_

Young Ronnie Flye's face was firmly set in understanding and with a great sense of responsibility when he reached in his pocket and pulled out the gold watch that Mr. Buck had entrusted to him. Flipping it open, he saw, in tiny letters, the names Claude Burwell and Buck Cannon scratched on the inside of the lid and finally understood the meaning.

Reaching into his other pocket, Ronnie pulled out his knife and moments later, he was inscribing his own name in little letters below theirs.

When he was done, he smiled. There was still enough room for several more names.

Someday.

 _The End_

* * *

 ** _Author's Notes:_**

 _I apologize that this story has taken so long to complete. Real life has been quite busy. In addition, the outline, focus, and cast of characters have all changed quite a few times since I started writing it in January. Hope you enjoyed the final result. Please let me know with your reviews, comments, favorites, and follows. Many thanks, too, to all who left reviews and encouragement on the previous chapters.  
_

 _If you recall the Season 4 episode "Spokes," Buck helps the wily but quiet prospector who is badly wounded following a card game with the local boss' son. Buck called him Jones because he didn't know his name, and the old man never volunteered it once he was feeling better. In the end, Buck paid the doc for his services and the doc commented that the prospector never even thanked him. Buck replied, "He didn't have to. He'd have done the same for me." I hope this story did a good job of showing that further level of understanding between them._

 _Since it is a long ride, Buck originally plans to make it as far as the Mammoth Mine before nightfall. It was established in 1872 along with the adjacent Mammoth Camp settlement. With the area being pretty wild, spending the night in a camp with other people around might have been safer than spending it out in the open._

 _Young Ronnie Flye threw the baseball bat he was carving. The game had become popular on both sides during the Civil War, and its popularity expanded in the years that followed with the establishment of semi-professional teams, some of which became the basis for today's major league baseball teams. Boys across America often carved their own bats._

 _Silver was discovered in the Florence, Arizona, area in 1875, so it's reasonable that Burwell/Jones would have made his way there eventually to prospect. He probably never struck it rich based on the story, but the famous Silver King Mine was established that same year. Approximately $42 million in silver would be taken from that mine, with most being mined between 1875 and 1888. There was also a silver strike in the Globe area (on the nearby San Carlos Reservation) in 1875; the silver rush in the Globe area was shorter lived, with most being gone by 1879, but Burwell/Jones might very well have made his way there in 1878 to try his hand and thereby set up the events of this story._

 _Finally, there's a heavy use of dialect through parts of the chapter and phonetic spelling in Burwell/Jones' will. Buck's speech patterns varied from time to time on the series, but often included a broken dialect. Phonetic spelling was very common among those who only had the equivalent of a second to fourth grade education. A fairly large percentage of the early male settlers in the west didn't even have that and were illiterate._

 _Coming soon (hopefully!): **One Fine Day in Summer**. Until then, please consider checking out some of my other works. Other fandoms currently include "Battlestar Galactica," "Fafhrd & the Gray Mouser," "The Lone Ranger," "The Elder Scrolls—Skyrim," "Brisco," and, for a fun change of pace, Vin Diesel's "xXx."  
_


	6. Shot 6: On a Rainy Night in Tucson

**Shot #6: On a Rainy Night in Tucson  
** By VStarTraveler

 ** _Summary:_** _In Shot #6: On a Rainy Night in Tucson, Sam goes to town for a date with Miss Julia Talbert. Has Cupid shot an arrow into Sam's heart? A little tale told in 16 short drabbles of exactly 100 words each. Western/Romance. One-shot._

 _This story was written for The Room Forum's Promptapalooza Redux, Challenge 2. The prompt and requirements will be included in the author's note at the end._

 ** _Disclaimer:_** _Same as before._

* * *

 **Drabble 1: Tucson**

It _never_ rained in Tucson, but when it did, it _poured_.

That, of course, was the tale told by the average citizen of Tucson, who would complain about the lack of rain and then complain about the downpour.

In actuality, July, August, and September were the rainy season in Tucson, if such a thing existed at all. Some summers, Tucson got as much as two whole inches of rain in a month, sometimes all at once.

Then again, some summers, it didn't rain at all.

On that early-July evening, Sam saw a raincloud approaching. He nudged Rudy into a gallop.

~HC~

 **Drabble 2: Nerves**

Julia never had nerves.

Except for tonight. She checked the time. Again.

Sam's note said he would arrive between 7 and 8 PM.

Dinner had been ready and in the stove by 5. She'd been ready at 6.

Her case of nerves started around 6:03.

It wasn't their guarded first date, nor their still-careful second. She'd known from the start that Sam was a good man, and knew that she liked him soon afterward. Now she wanted to find out how much and if it went both ways.

She looked in the little mirror.

Again.

Then she heard the rain.

~HC~

 **Drabble 3: Surprise**

In the new suit he'd bought for his brother's wedding, Sam knocked on the front door and then stepped back. He didn't want to get Miss Talbert or her floor wet.

When the door opened, his breath caught. Her blue dress hugged her waist, giving her an hourglass figure and her blonde hair was perfectly coifed. "Good evening, Julia. You're...you're beautiful this evening."

"Thank you, Sam. But you're _drenched_!"

He gave a wry smile and a cock of his head. "It never rains in Tucson. But when it does, it pours. Of course, five minutes later, it wouldn't have mattered."

~HC~

 **Drabble 4: Orders**

A sympathetic shake of her head. "Well, as my mother would always say, get in here before you catch cold."

They both laughed.

"Seriously, I've been collecting clothes to cut down for the orphanage. See if you can find something to wear while I start a fire to dry yours."

When Sam held something up, she nodded. "That looks like it might work. Change, hang yours on the rack in front of the fire, and join me on the back porch."

"You don't have to go. I can step in there—"

"I'm a schoolteacher, Sam. Appearances."

She stepped out back.

~HC~

 **Drabble 5: Worries**

Sam had made it to the livery stable, but had to walk to Julia's home from there. He was almost to her front gate when the first, huge drops hit. He was soaked by the time he stepped up on the porch.

Now, he was about to change into a baggy pair of pants and a shirt that would have made the clown in a traveling circus blush. As he changed, he felt embarrassed. Julia might not laugh, but she might never see him the same way again either.

With his clothes hung to dry, he stepped out the door…

~HC~

 **Drabble 6: Relief**

"Sam, that was luck. I must've missed those. I've been cutting up big ones for two outfits for the kids. Those fit you fine—well enough, anyway—and will keep you in good stead until your clothes are dry."

She saw his sheepish look before he said, "I must admit, Julia, I thought you'd laugh."

She smiled knowingly in return. "Okay, _I'll_ admit that they aren't nearly as nice as your suit, but my mom always said it's the man inside the clothes that counts. And when it's the same, good man…"

Julia saw Sam smile and she did, too.

~HC~

 **Drabble 7: Rain**

Though it had slacked off, rain continued to fall on the dusty little town. Raindrops dripped with rapidity from the edge of the roof over the small rear porch.

Julia waved for Sam to be seated, so he sat down on the bench next to her.

"I'm sorry, Julia. I didn't mean—"

"I know, Sam. Having had six brothers, it takes a great deal to embarrass me, but my profession requires me to exercise discretion. Unfortunately, there's little I haven't seen and not too much that I haven't done. Though, if I have my choice, I'll never chew tobacco again."

~HC~

 **Drabble 8: Pain**

"Julia, you said 'had.' You've lost one of your brothers?"

She lowered her head. "Two. The eldest, in the war. Wesley—we accepted his death. Ricky, though, joined just months before the war ended and was killed just a few days before it was over. That caused my parents…to lose hope. Dad died of consumption a couple of years later; it took my mom a long time to recover. I wonder what Ricky might have done or become."

She heard him say "I'm sorry," and then he took her hand. She gave his a squeeze, but didn't let go.

~HC~

 **Drabble 9: Why**

They switched to small talk: Sam's week, Julia's plan for the coming school year. Then they sat and watched the rain.

When the silence lengthened, Sam said, "Julia, you could have taught school in Ohio. Why are you really here? In the West?"

Julia laughed lightly. "I _did_ teach school in Ohio, but I wanted to come to the West where I could see and record it."

"What about your family?"

"They're mostly back in Ohio; Mom, she writes weekly. I even get her letters sometimes." She smiled with a slight shrug. "Sam, do you have family beside your brother?"

~HC~

 **Drabble 10: Past**

She knew she'd asked a difficult question when Sam hesitated, looking out into the darkness, as if it filled his soul. The sound of the rain, pattering on the roof, dripping from the edge to the ground below, filled the silence.

She heard his breath, felt his sigh. "Julia, I don't have any other family, though I did once. I...was married and had a daughter, but they're...gone now, killed...several years ago. It's a long story."

She saw that his pain lingered despite those years; she gave his arm a comforting squeeze. "Sam, tell me?"

And he did.

~HC~

 **Drabble 11: Honesty**

He'd worried about her reaction, even before it had come up in their conversation. Still, he wanted her to know everything now, in case it mattered.

She leaned against him, her head touching his shoulder, her hand holding his arm tight, as he told the tale of San Felipe. Her presence provided comfort, fueling his desire to leave nothing out. As the story went on, he began to realize that he shouldn't have worried.

When he was done, she said, "Sam, I'm so sorry."

A surge of relief. "Julia, thank you for understanding. I feared it might drive you away."

~HC~

 **Drabble 12: Memories  
**

"Sam, I hope you'll learn in time that I am not a fragile wallflower. Growing up as the only girl with six brothers, I couldn't afford to be."

She grinned before continuing. "We all have our past, our memories, and we all have places in our heart for those we love and have loved. I would never ask you to forget those because I know they are part of you, just like I don't think you'd ask that of me."

"Julia, you're a very intelligent woman."

"I don't know about that but I did graduate from Ohio Wesleyan Female College."

~HC~

 **Drabble 13: Home  
**  
"You went to college?"

"I wanted to be a scientist, to go places, to discover. There aren't many jobs for female scientists though, so teaching allows me to go places and contribute to science as I do it. What about you?"

"We moved out here when I was young, then my parents died, so it's really been the only home and way of life I've known. I was a drover on some of the early drives and traveled around parts of the west, but I always wound up back here."

"Have you thought of getting a place of your own?"

~HC~

 **Drabble 14: Ending**

"I've thought about it, a lot actually, but it takes a lot of land for even a small herd out here. It never rains—"

Both laughed as the last drops fell.

"And I'm a pretty good foreman, without the risk of being an owner. Mr. Cannon treats me and all of the boys right, too."

Julia understood. She'd already heard many stories in her short time in the territory of great hardships and of the Cannons' generosity.

With the rain over, only the "drip-plop" of drops from the roof continued. The moon and stars started appearing in the sky overhead.

~HC~

 **Drabble 15: Tomorrow?**

Julia, leaning comfortably against Sam said, "I love the rain, and I'm looking forward to the bloom that follows. At least that's what I've heard."

"We may see some of that tomorrow on our ride—if you still want to go."

"Very much so."

"Great. It's been a great evening, too, but it's getting late and I'd better go."

"I've had a lovely evening, too, and am looking forward to tomorrow."

In the post-rain quiet of the night, the growl of Sam's stomach was loud enough to be heard.

Julia clapped a hand over her mouth and fled into the house.

~HC~

 **Drabble 16: Goodnight**

When Sam followed, he saw her at the oven pulling out pots that smelled as if they'd seen better times. Julia had tears in her eyes.

"I was having such a nice time with you I completely forgot dinner. Now, it's ruined. I'm a terrible host! I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, Julia. I hadn't thought of dinner until then either."

"Wait! There's a pie...in the pantry. It's not ruined."

"I like—no, _love_ —pie."

After the pie, they said goodnight with their first kiss. As the door closed behind him, Sam walked away with a smile on his face.

* * *

 ** _Author's Notes:_**

 _Thanks for reading this story. I apologize if it's not quite as polished as usual; a tight deadline dictated the schedule and it's as close as I could get it in the time available. Still, I hope you've enjoyed it and I'll appreciate any feedback you might offer._

 _The challenge was to write the story in at least six drabbles of exactly 100 words each using the prompt "A rainy night on a back porch." Each has been counted by hand and then confirmed using Microsoft Word (taking into account Word's problems counting dashes and ellipses) to ensure as accurate a count as possible. There's a perspective change between Sam and Julia from drabble to drabble, too. That was originally included in the title block of each, but I think it was obvious in most, so that was deleted.  
_

 _Julia's alma mater, Ohio Wesleyan Female College, was founded in 1853 in Delaware, Ohio. In 1877, it merged with Ohio Wesleyan University._


	7. Shot 7: Still Images

**Shot #7: Still Images  
** By VStarTraveler

 ** _Summary:_** _When the Mexican beauty walked in, he knew he would do anything for her until she actually asked. Then it took some serious convincing and a great deal of effort to really do it. Family/humor._

 _This story is written by the "Writers Anonymous POV Challenge" in which the story is told from the perspective of someone who is not the protagonist._

* * *

 _Tucson, Arizona Territory  
End of July, 1878_

She was, in a word, exquisite.

With her dark hair and fine features, she appeared to be Mexican of Spanish descent. Her age was indeterminate, but she was mature, probably somewhere between 30 and perhaps 40. There was no gray visible in her hair and only the finest of lines graced the corners of her eyes and mouth, making me wonder if I could see this only because she wore no makeup. Of course, with the color and texture of her skin and her long lashes, there was no need for it. Similarly, despite the summer heat, she showed no signs of sweat; her face had a natural glisten that highlighted her features far better than anything that I could ever hope to achieve. The woman wore boots and a long riding skirt that showed traces of dust near the bottom of the hem. Otherwise, she was spotless and not a single hair appeared to be out of place. Then there were the dark pools of her eyes...entrancing.

She wore riding gloves on her hands so no ring was visible on her finger; I could only hope that she had walked into the right place and that I would not be disappointed when she removed the gloves. Completely taken by her beauty, my heart was racing as I stuttered, "May I help you, Ma'am?"

Her face broke into a lovely smile, revealing perfect teeth not often seen in these parts. Any doubt that I would do anything in the world for this lovely woman evaporated only to return like a lead weight when she spoke a second later, reminding me that beauty is sometimes only skin deep.

"Yes, Señor, I would like for you to shoot my children."

Anything in the world but that. I so was taken aback, so disbelieving, that the words rushed out. "I'm sorry?"

Her smile continued as she said, "I want you to shoot my children."

There, she had repeated the awful request so there could be no mistake. I was shocked at her callous disregard for basic human decency, for the respect for life, and for the love of her own children. Surely this beautiful woman could not be so cruel as to be willing to kill her own flesh and blood. Perhaps she was older than she appeared, that her children were in those troublesome teen or early adult years where rebellion is sometimes a problem. Maybe they had turned on their family or, coming up with the first thing I could imagine, had turned to rustling or robbing stage coaches or banks. My stuttering got no better as I forced out, "Ma'am, are you looking for the marshal?"

She gave me a strange, questioning look before saying, "No, I want _you_ to do it."

Still thinking that I had misheard or maybe misunderstood, I said, "Ma'am, I'm sorry but I don't understand."

"They will be a year old in a few days so I would like for you to shoot them for me"

I had heard from my sister of her problems adjusting to the rigors of motherhood, but this seemed to go well beyond that. Perhaps she could no longer handle the stress so she had decided to hire someone to do the deed since she could fear failing if she attempted it of her own accord. As beautiful as she was and as hot as she'd just made my blood run, the woman must have icewater running in her veins. I had to do something to get her out of my shop so I could go find the marshal or maybe her husband, whoever he was, to stop the horrible tragedy that she was planning, particularly against such young children. It would have been smart to come up with a suitable deception to buy time, to keep her there where she could be found, but in the heat of the moment, it was the truth that blurted right out.

"Ma'am, you must have me mistaken for someone else. I do not and would never, ever shoot children. In fact, I could never shoot anyone!"

"Really? But your sign..." She picked up one of my fliers. "It says you do." Pointing to the word below my name, she said, "Oh, I'm so sorry. The English word, photograph!" With a light laugh, she added, "I want you to photograph my children."

The weight of a thousand fears seemed to lift from my heart as I breathed out the breath I'd unknowingly been holding. I was about to respond when the door opened again, tinkling the bell, and an older gentleman with whitish-gray hair visible below the brim of his hat walked in. He was a large, burly-looking man, his face deeply etched with years of hard, outdoor living. One might ordinarily have thought he was a rancher or a farmer, but there a couple of things that seemed to point to something more.

First, the man was not wearing clothing appropriate for either of those professions. Instead, he wore a Sunday go-to-meeting suit that seemed to be well-fitted to his size. It was a bit difficult to tell for sure, however, due to the second point. He was gripping a pint-sized child tightly in an arm on each side of his barrel-like chest. The tight grip was apparently necessary as both children were squirming, obviously wanting down and doing their best to get there, making it look more like he was carrying big sacks of flour than children. Despite his age and appearance, he seemed to have some experience and looked to be at no risk of dropping them, though he also didn't seem to be able to improve their positions either.

Looking at the woman, he said, "See! I told you Mamá was in here!"

Both of the toddlers started calling for their mother in that frantic, insistent way that children of that age do when they can say only a few words but that one special word is capable of making things happen.

The woman, on turning to see them, rushed over, giving the older man a quick kiss before taking one of her youngsters and giving the other a kiss and a squeeze to allow both the man and the toddlers to breathe easier.

Turning back to me as they babbled loudly, she asked, "Can you shoot them this afternoon?"

With a nod and a smile, I agreed, hoping I wouldn't want to shoot them before the afternoon was over.

~HC~

Mrs. Cannon, it turned out, understood the basics and that one did not ordinarily photograph very young children. The exposure time needed for the photographic plates that would record the scene was just too great for the photographer to be sure of getting a good image before the child moved, thereby spoiling the photo and the expensive imaging plate. She understood and agreed to cover the expense of any ruined plates over the grimace of her husband.

"Is there anything that can be done to speed up recording the image?" Mr. Cannon asked.

"Well, possibly. I have some brand new plates that we could try. I understand that they allow a shorter exposure duration, but I haven't used this type before so I don't know how effective they might be. They are more expensive, though."

"Of course," he practically groaned even as his wife was agreeing. The look of concern continued to grow in his eyes.

Minutes later, I was in the prep room with the camera and the new plates when I heard them talking through the vent in the wall as they prepared the children to go before the camera.

"Victoria, we can't afford to spend a fortune on photographs. Between the cost of these more expensive plates and getting the pictures themselves, we could be talking big money right when we need it to purchase cattle for the new deal with the army."

"John, there are always new deals with the army or the Indian Bureau or someone, and you always deliver."

"But I have to have the cash to do it."

"You'll find it, John. Besides, you promised. One of us and at least one with the twins."

"Yes, you're right. I promised," he sighed. "And you're right. It is important. Okay. Let's try one; if it doesn't work, we'll come back next year when they're bigger."

"John," she said plaintively, as if it was almost two syllables. " _That_ is the problem. They _will_ be bigger. They're growing _so_ fast, I want to preserve this memory of them like this, when you could still hold them both without them getting away."

She laughed lightly, leading to what sounded like a "Hmph" and more laughter from her and the children.

His voice was low, as if speaking to himself, when he added, "Well, when we were little, people preserved their memories in their minds without photographs and did just fine."

Mrs. Cannon must have overheard him, however, for as I was opening the door to come out with the camera, I heard her call across the room, "Well, _some_ of us are _older_ than some of the _rest of us_ and _someone did_ promise."

Defeated, he replied, "Yes, dear. I know."

~HC~

The children sat on the floor playing while their mother and father posed for the first photograph. I told them to look at the camera and stay very still. Instead, she turned slightly, looking at her husband, while he looked at her so it was in profile rather than looking ahead. She was beaming at him and, within seconds, he was smiling back at her. It was a very flattering scene, but something was wrong.

"Excuse me. I suggest that you don't smile, since most people can't hold the smile still long enough to get a good shot."

"My husband makes me smile," said Mrs. Cannon. "It will be okay."

"My wife makes me smile, too," he replied. "Well, most of the time."

Her punch was playful and the kiss that followed was quick since the kids were starting to crawl around. Then the boy, I think, stood up, and his sister followed.

"Ready? On three. One, two three! Hold it. Hold it. Hold it. And done!"

She moved quickly, picking up the boy leaving the girl for Mr. Cannon while I went to change the photographic plate. When I returned a few minutes later, they were sitting, holding the children for the next photograph. Since they were going to be holding them in this picture, the standard plate was in the box.

Despite some squirming and squeezing that was probably tighter than normal, we got the image without any noticeable movement. Of course, the plate would record movement that might not be noticed and then reward us with a blur, ruining the shot. I suspected that Mr. Cannon's fingers were crossed about as tight as the grip he had on his daughter.

When the camera was ready for the third shot, I sat it down and then prepared the magnesium wire flares that would increase the light level and help shorten the exposure time even further. With the hoods adjusted to direct the light right at them, all that remained was to light them and pull the shutter. First, though, it was important for the children to be comfortable.

"Mrs. Cannon, what are their names?"

"This is Betsy and this is Bobby. Say hello, children."

They paid no mind, laughing instead at Mr. Cannon making smiling faces trying to keep them entertained.

"That's good, Mr. Cannon. Keep them focused right there. Betsy, Bobby, hold still kids and we're going to take this picture."

With all ready, I hit the igniters; the magnesium wires flared, burning bright. This caused both children to start screaming just as the shutter opened. Two pairs of little arms went up in the "Pick me up" pose as they bawled. Shot number three was definitely a bust.

Both parents stepped in to calm the children, which was somewhat surprising. Men of our time—or perhaps it's been that way from time immemorial?—seem to have a tendency to let the women deal with the children and their problems and only be around for the calm parts. Mr. Cannon was a rather gruff looking man, but he was quite hands-on, soothing his little one and bringing him under control almost as quickly as the mother with hers. It was Mrs. Cannon, though, that decided a break was in order to change diapers and soothe little tummies with a spot of milk. They went upstairs to my apartment over the shop and Mr. Cannon returned a few moments later.

"Mr. Willis, there are some things men just can't do. I'll be back shortly," he said before stepping out the door.

I was looking at my watch as the shop bell on the door stopped its little dance. With Mr. Cannon gone and not available to help, it was, I realized, going to be a long afternoon.

~HC~

Setup for the next image took a little while but Mr. Cannon didn't return so Mrs. Cannon handled the children on her own. She seemed to make it a game, keeping the kids' attention and keeping them together. She used the small chair and stood one on either side so they could hold the back to help steady themselves. While they could walk on their own, they frequently flopped or fell, leading to laughter or tears depending on the result on impact. When they both went down simultaneously, if one felt more strongly about the situation than the other, the quieter would often agree to defer to the judgment of the more vocal and join in.

The camera was ready when she had them standing and still. She had already given me new instructions.

 _"When I say 'Now,' please take the picture. There's no need for the 'ready, one, two, three.' They're only one so I don't think that means too much to them. Not yet, anyway."_

The twinkle in her eye made me realize that her sense of humor equaled her beauty and I smothered a sigh at my bad luck for her walking through my door a few years too late.

There were lights and reflectors all around, so it was quite bright, even though we had dispensed with the magnesium flash since it expensive and not worth the effort if it was only going to make them cry. Mrs. Cannon was smiling and nodding and waving her fingers to keep their attention as I released the shutter to get the shot.

Perhaps it was my movement, anticipating, but the boy (since I could finally tell them apart by little differences in their clothes) giggled, let go of the chair, and sat down hard on his little bottom just before the shutter released. As he did, his feet rolled up in the air, causing his sister to laugh and imitate him. There were lots of giggles but a sad sigh from Mrs. Cannon, who understood that the picture was ruined and that she'd be paying for the wasted plate.

It was then that I started to ask if we could stop there, to break the growing tab, but her look told me she was determined to carry on. Like the gambler who insists on playing "just one more hand," knowing that Lady Luck will finally smile on him and make up for his long string of losses that he refuses to attribute to his deficiency in skill, Mrs. Cannon seemed to know deep down in her heart that the next image would be the one, even if the odds seemed stacked against her. Sadly, I picked up the camera and went back to set up for the next attempt.

The door tinkled a few minutes later as I was setting the camera back up. Mr. Cannon walked in, giving an almost imperceptible nod to his wife before picking up the girl. There were whispers between them before Mr. Cannon pulled me to the side.

With an almost equally low voice, he said, "Mr. Willis, is there some way we could hold these little banditos without being in the picture? Victoria desperately wants one of them by themselves, without us being in it."

Thus came the 'mountain' idea, where a number of blankets were draped over a some chairs and crates. Somehow, Mr. Cannon folded himself up small enough to hide beneath it all while Mrs. Cannon positioned the children up top. Mr. Cannon then grasped a back or a little leg or something for each from under cover of the blankets. Mrs. Cannon did her little attention routine, but it didn't work. The kids seemed quite interested in their restraints. They investigated by trying to pull the blankets off to discover the cause, and more giggling ensued.

"This decade would be good!" called Mr. Cannon from his hidey-hole. It was muffled and in a lower voice, but he added, "Or else I may never get up!"

Mrs. Cannon looked sympathetic to her husband's plight, but she also looked determined. "Be patient, my husband. We're almost—Now, Mr. Willis!"

There was a little movement, but with all of the light and the fast-imaging plate and shutter speed, I couldn't be sure if it was before, during, or after, and whether the image would come out. Even if it was good, both had been looking down inquisitively at the hidden hands holding them so, despite Mrs. Cannon's direction, I doubted that the end result would be interesting enough to be purchased. The afternoon was dragging and the expense was mounting. This, I hoped, was the end, so I turned to Mrs. Cannon to put an end to the exercise.

Even before I had a chance to say a word, the gambler spirit came out in her in force. "Let's try one more, Mr. Willis. Children, you sit right here while I rearrange Mount Papá into something more interesting. John—"

"Got it, Victoria. Go to it," he replied as he crawled from under the stack.

She started rearranging the pile as if she had a plan, so he stayed down on the floor only to be mobbed moments later by both of the little tykes. I stepped out to prepare the camera for one more, hopefully last, shot.

~HC~

The door bell tinkled again just before I was ready to step out of the prep room. Hoping to not lose a sale, I called, "I'll be right out!"

Coming out with the camera, I saw Buck and Mano, two of my friend Sam's buddies, standing out front, grinning. I had no idea why they would show up so I called out, "Hi, guys! Have a seat and I'll be with you in a few minutes when I'm finished with these fine folks."

Mrs. Cannon was standing still, her head cocked slightly with a contented look on her face as she looked at her husband and children. Mr. Cannon's eyes were barely open as he held two sleeping toddlers.

I approached Mrs. Cannon and whispered, "Looks like we won't be taking any more photos today, Señora."

"Oh, no! This is perfect!" she said. "Manolito, get Bobby."

I was surprised to see that Buck and Mano had come on back without me noticing. The Mexican man took the little boy while Mrs. Cannon took the girl from her husband's arms. While they were placing the sleeping children on the pillow, I turned to Buck and asked, "Buck, you know these people?"

"Him," he said, extending a hand to Mr. Cannon to help him up, "all the days of my life. He's my big brother."

Looking back at Manolito and Mrs. Cannon, Buck added "That's Victoria's brother, too. John found us a little while ago and asked us to come down to be in one more family portrait."

Now fully awake, Mr. Cannon added, "Yeah, I figured if we're going to have to mortgage the High Chaparral to pay for these, we might as well get a good one that includes all of us."

~HC~

It was early the next morning when Mr. and Mrs. Cannon walked into the shop. They'd stayed in Tucson overnight so I could develop the pictures and make a set of photos for their review.

"Good morning, Mr. Willis," said Mrs. Cannon cheerfully.

"Good morning, Mrs. Cannon. Mr. Cannon. Where are your children?"

Mr. Cannon replied, "They probably had enough of this place yesterday, so we left them with their uncles. That way, they can all have fun and we can talk in peace. How did the pictures turn out?"

I sighed when laying the pictures out on the review desk where they could look at them in good lighting. "Of the seven shots we took, one was completely ruined. Three were still images that weren't blurry, but you'll probably be disappointed in the others. They came out with parts that were blurred, but even worse, they were, well, a bit silly."

Expecting looks of disappointment, I was surprised to see Mrs. Cannon smile and then continue smiling as she looked and nodded at each image. Mr. Cannon sat to her side, his hand covering his mouth and most of the bottom part of his face.

"Mr. Willis, we'll take them," she said.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Cannon, but which ones? The still images?"

"Mr. Willis, they are just still images or messed up images to you, but to John and me, they're all images of our children. They may not be perfect to you, and the children may not have been perfectly still in them, but they show our children just how I want to remember them. They're always playing and moving and having fun together. Mr. Willis, I want them all, plus a large copy of these three. John?"

Noting her extras, I turned to Mr. Cannon, expecting him to put an end to Mrs. Cannon's dreams of all of her selections and my dreams of a nice payoff. He slowly removed the hand he'd been holding over his mouth to reveal a smile forming.

"Mr. Willis, these aren't the posed looks we usually see in photographs, but, after seeing them, I'm glad they're not. Yes, there are a few blurry parts but these are genuinely good portraits of our kids, capturing a little of their character, not the stone-faced images that we commonly see in too many pictures. Considering the challenges, great job."

We settled up the bill, with Mr. Cannon making a payment on the pictures delivered and the plates, with the rest due in two weeks, after his delivery to the army, when he planned to pick up the rest of the photos. As I walked them to the door, I was feeling a great sense of relief that they were happy with their purchase and that I'd made a nice sale. Even better yet, I decided that I wouldn't be dealing with babies or small children again for a very long time. I was already debating putting a sign out front that said "No babies," "No kids," or something similar, when Mrs. Cannon turned back toward me.

"Mr. Willis, thank you so much. We look forward to showing off your work. We will be sure to tell _all_ of our friends about your nice work with the babies, too. I'm sure many of them will want pictures of their children, too. And we'll see you again about this same time next year."

 _The End_

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_**

 _Thanks for reading. Any feedback you might provide will be greatly appreciated._

 _The goal for the challenge is to have an outside observer tell the story from his or her point of view, telling the tale of the protagonist (Victoria) against the antagonist (her quest for the "perfect" photo), but being largely outside the action. In this case, the photographer, the facilitator allowing her to pursue her goal, tells her tale without actually directing it._

 _One might ask why Mr. Willis, the photographer (yes, for those who've read the previous shots, it's Roland Willis, the new photographer in town from Shot #3: A Most Unintentional Hero, with his advertisement, "Roland Willis, Photographer") was confused by Victoria's use of the word "shoot." While a picture was sometimes known as a shot (and with the advent of higher speed photography in the mid-to-late 1870s, as a "snapshot"), according to_

 _etymonline dot com/word/shoot_

 _the word "shoot" was not associated with act of taking photographs until about 1890 with the introduction of moving picture cameras. Therefore, he might well have been shocked by her request._

 _As for why Victoria might have struggled with the word, the word "photograph" originated in 1839 when she was very young, so it might not have been known (or considered an important word to her English tutor (see the opening of Shot #4: Just a Simple Little Wedding). Since most early photos were Daguerreotypes (to the mid 1850s with the introduction of other photographic methods), the pictures were generally known by that name and the photographer "took" the picture like we do today. Still, photography was not widely practiced in the United States until the 1860s during the American Civil War. With her excellent grasp of the English language, it was still a second language to her so she might have been more likely to associate the word 'shot' with 'shoot' than a native speaker of the time._

 _I checked a number of other words like tykes and hidey-hole to make sure that they were in use at the time of the story. A couple didn't make the cut since they were more modern and were replaced with words that were period appropriate._

 _Wikipedia notes that Hurter & Driffield began a systematic evaluation of sensitivity characteristics of photographic emulsions in 1876. Then, in 1878, heat ripening of gelatin emulsions was discovered. This greatly increased sensitivity and made possible very short "snapshot" exposures like those needed in this story. It was later that same year that Eadweard Muybridge used a row of cameras with trip-wires to make a high-speed photographic analysis of a galloping horse. Each picture was taken in less than the two-thousandth part of a second, and they were taken in sufficiently rapid sequence (about 25 per second) that they constituted a brief real-time "movie" that could be viewed by using a device such as a zoetrope, a photographic "first". The higher speed photographic plates allowed babies and young children to start being photographed more regularly, too. _


End file.
